PROJECT DELILAH
by Tatooine92
Summary: With the Flock still "on the loose," the Director of Itex has concocted a new plan of attack against them. Set approx. 4 years after STWAOES. Project Delilah, AKA Del, belongs to me; everything else to James Patterson. COMPLETED! Please R&R.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

"How is she?"

"Tops in every skill class, Madam Director."

"Excellent."

The Director stood casually on the metal catwalk, gazing icily down at the girl in the training chamber below. She seemed to be about seventeen, with shaggy auburn hair and cool gray eyes that glared fiercely at the punching bag she was attacking. Every muscle flexed and relaxed in the girl's body as she landed punch after brutal punch on the bag. On the outside, she looked perfectly normal. The Director's interest told a separate tale—as did the two golden wings peeking out from beneath the girl's black tank top.

"What is her maximum heartbeat now?" the Director asked, her cold gaze never leaving the girl below.

"Uh . . ." The man beside her consulted his clipboard, flipping a page over and looking steadily at it. "One-fifty a minute."

"One-fifty? What specimen did we graft onto her?"

Another check of the clipboard.

_"__Passer domesticus__."_

_"_You created that girl and then made her three percent_ common house sparrow_?!"

The Director was nearly livid, and she turned on her assistant. He quailed in slight terror before the Director backed down.

"Such a small bird . . . She should be able to attain a higher heart rate. I want to see_ at least _a two-hundred maximum rate on her. _At least._ Mark her down for increased endurance training."

The assistant hurriedly scribbled down this note on his clipboard as the Director turned to someone behind her. Smiling coldly, she motioned him to the railing to observe the girl below. He obliged, though almost reluctantly, and a moment later, he peered down. He just studied the girl for a few long moments before frowning. The Director noticed immediately.

"Whatever is the matter, Dr. Batchelder?" she asked. "Do you not think that the Mark Twos are far more superior to your Mark Ones?"

Jeb didn't answer immediately. He just kept studying the girl, watching the way her auburn hair bounced free of its ponytail, smacking against her sweat-drenched neck, and the way she so viciously lunged for the punching bag.

"Does she have any liabilities?" he asked finally. The Director appeared insulted.

"Need I remind you that this is _my_ special project, Dr. Batchelder?" she hissed, frowning at him. "You would do well not to doubt. But no, she does not—none that we can find. That extra one percent of avian DNA did no harm; in fact, we are expecting her mature wingspan to be fourteen-point-five feet, perhaps more if she has a sudden growth spurt, but that is unlikely. She has more efficient circulatory and respiratory systems than the Mark Ones, and we predict she will be able to cruise upwards of forty thousand feet with barely any increase in oxygen intake."

If Jeb seemed impressed, he made no show of it. Instead, there was a momentary gleam of sadness in his eyes as the girl below landed one final punch on the bag, brushed the sweat from her forehead, and turned. Emotionless gray eyes stared up at him, sending an icy chill down his spine. The Director smiled a less than genuine smile of cruel pride as she surveyed her handiwork.

"Well, Doctor?" she asked, not even looking at Jeb. "What do you _really_ think?"

"I think she has potential," Jeb managed, eyes never leaving the girl. Such a fate to be born to . . . "You mentioned maturity? How did the artificial aging affect her?"

"It didn't," the Director replied smugly. "The injections have long since worn off. Two years ago, she was a mere embryo, not yet even three percent bird. Quite amazing, don't you think?"

Jeb didn't respond, but the Director paid him no mind. She simply pressed her palms to the cold steel railing and leaned forward, gazing at her precious creation as maternally as she could for having ice water coursing through her veins.

"The greatest recombinant-DNA specimen we've ever created," she murmured to herself, watching the girl return to pounding at the punching bag. "Finally, those pesky mutant _failures_ will be no matter. You _will_ take care of them, _won't_ you, Delilah?"

The girl—Delilah—paused momentarily and tilted her head slightly as if she'd heard something. A cruel smirk twisted the Director's mouth as she watched her prized hybrid put all her energy into that punching bag. Jeb just sighed and walked away.


	2. 1: I Am Delilah

**Chapter One – I Am Delilah**

_The assignment was simple—too simple, in fact: find Maximum Ride. Find her Flock. __Kill them all.__ And how? By becoming one of them._ Simply make them believe that you want to help, that you're their friend . . . then _deal_ with them. But that's not how I work. I play both sides against the middle for _myself_. I decided that was the best course of action when I first discovered I was being trained to be a killer . . . when I first heard "expiration date" and my name in the same sentence. That was when I decided I was more important than the bird kids, more important than Itex, more important than taking over the world.

The scientists named me Project Delilah. I call myself Del. It sounds _much_ cooler, but I think I got my name from the Bible, of all places. That did _not_ mean that at least one of those perverted scientists had been to Sunday school, did it? Funny. I'd have thought it would've made a bigger impact on his morals! But I guess it's fitting; after all, Delilah outta the Bible was a double agent, or so I hear. One second it's "Oh, Samson, I love you!" Then five minutes later: "Hey, what'll you Philistines pay me to turn him over to you?" _I_ personally think she was an idiot; after all, what woman turns on her man just for cold, hard cash? Or maybe she was like me. Maybe she was emotionless. Though I suspect that if she were, she'd have trained herself to be that way; I was _born_ that way.

No need to wash out your ears; you heard right: _born to be emotionless._ At least, I think I was. I know that I can't really feel things like sympathy or love, and I've been trained not to feel guilt. It's because my assignment is so . . . dirty. You can't feel guilt when you're going to be the one giving the kill order. I suppose this little emotionless business is a side effect of living your entire life being observed by guys who like to prod you with needles. And it wasn't even my _entire_ life. But more on that some other time.

I was literally bred to be the Director's pet. She basically raised me, but I can't say as how she was a good mother. On the contrary—she was a lousy mom. I was doted over in that mad scientist sort of way (because, y'know, the woman's a sociopath), but hey. I got to watch as much TV as I could stand, though I'm beginning to think there was some sort of subliminal Itex propaganda sprinkled through it. Whatever. As soon as I get my chance, I'm busting outta there, anyway.

Born and trained to be the best: that's me. I was practically the only one of the Mark Two Human-Avian Hybrids that survived infancy, or, as the scientists call it, "the fledgling years." Yep, they refer to baby bird kids as fledglings. Let us not even venture there, okay? I wouldn't say I had it super-rough, though; after all, I had survived this long and the Director was keeping me under her personal custody. (I was gonna say she'd taken me under her wing, but, well . . . That would be so ironic it wouldn't even be funny.) My life as far back as I can recall was something of a routine: training in the morning, tests before lunch, a bowl of protein mush _for_ lunch, then more training and tests in the afternoon. That's my existence in a nutshell: training and "Tom and Jerry" reruns. Brilliant childrearing strategy, Madam Director. Brilliant.

But my life was nowhere near cushy, so let's get that straight right now. Sometimes that morning training would involve fighting some of the other, stronger experiments, _just_ to prove my skills. A couple of times I fought some of the infamous Erasers (think "werewolves" and you've got it) and yes, I lived to tell about it. Limped away once or twice, but their eardrums were no better off. And the tests? They were comprised of everything from blood work to those stress tests where you have to run for extended periods on a treadmill while your heart rate and respiration are measured. And from time to time, they'd drag me in for an electroencephalogram. (Yes, that _is_ a word; the dictionary definition is "a graphic record of the electrical activity of the brain as recorded by an electroencephalograph." So sue me for eavesdropping on the scientist jargon.) And while the Director may have firmly instructed my handlers to make sure that I was never damaged or my physical well-being was never compromised, that didn't stop some of those tests from hurting. Blood tests in particular were painful because they kept stabbing at me with needles in places that really hurt, like the backs of my hands. And even a bird kid can get winded from running on a treadmill all afternoon. Sure, we don't get bushed as fast as "real" humans, but it does happen. Ahem. Anyway, they'd sometimes test my hearing and eyesight, both of which are far better than an average human's. You know how perfect vision for people is 20/20? Well . . . mine's maybe three times as good. Or four times. I've never measured. But my hearing . . . Yeah, it's super-sharp and sensitive to low frequencies, what with the bird genes and all, but only in my right ear. They ran a hearing test too high one afternoon. The frequency shot sky-high, punctured my eardrum, and took my hearing right out. And that doesn't even _begin_ to describe the excruciating pain I was in for a long time, either. So, yeah, I'm half deaf. Oh, you should've seen how the Director blew her top when she found _that_ out . . . Thankfully, she didn't have me "retired"; she just upped my training to make sure I could function in spite of that loss. Guess she thought I was too darn important to lose.

So yeah, I was the best. And that's not my own arrogance talking; that's fact. I _had_ to be the best because, from the way the Director told it, the Flock could give me a run for my money. I believed her, too, but I also believed that I could kick their Mark One butts from here to Mars. (And that _is_ my arrogance talking.) But the one thing that got me was, if I were _so_ good, why the hell did they pair me with a sidekick?


	3. 2: En Route

**A/N: **Del is a fancharacter belonging to me; Derek was created by **JaxSolo** so we could RP my plot bunny. Everybody else belongs to James Patterson.

* * *

**Chapter Two – En Route**

Yep, a sidekick. Y'know, like Tonto is to the Lone Ranger. Or Robin to Batman. Chewbacca to Han Solo. White wine to chicken.

Derek to me.

His name, obviously, was Derek. He was a quiet sort; I gathered that he didn't really like me. I also gathered that his more interesting three percent was more unique than mine. Me: common house sparrow. Him: red-tailed hawk. But . . . His wings: natural. My wings: custom colors. Someday I've gotta tell _that_ story . . . Aw, heck, I'll tell it now. Y'see, when I turned sixteen, my wings were fourteen feet long, fully functional, and . . . brown. Extremely brown. Boringly brown. So dull that I wanted to scream and was practically embarrassed to show them. Enter the Director, intent upon making me Itex's greatest hybrid creation—ever. She told me that, for my birthday (er, the day on which I was "hatched"), I could have cosmetic work done on my wings so they would look more attractive—at least, I think that's how she phrased it. Needless to say, I took her up on that idea. I snatched that little deal up like it was a seventy-five-percent-off sale at Bloomingdale's. She somehow conjured up a booklet of wing designs, and I chose the first one that jumped off the page at me. A little anesthesia, and a few hours later, I had a pair of rich golden brown wings speckled with dark brown. Think "golden eagle" and you'll be close. But _my_ wings? Much more golden. Oh yeah.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yes. Derek. My _sidekick_. Please; I don't need no stinkin' sidekick! Whaddaya take me for, anyway? Oh, I dunno; maybe the _only_ Mark Two specifically designed for this mission. Derek's an older Mark Two—one of the first—but he was dragged in for a crash course in side-kicking . . . or something. I tell you, he doesn't talk much, and when he does, it's to tell me to shut up. He's actually lived seventeen years; I've only lived two. (More on that later, but I'll tell you now, it has to do with that whole "designed specifically for this mission" thing.) Derek and I only trained for a couple of weeks before we got shipped out the door, but even in that short time, I learned that he was a fighter. Tough, capable . . . one of those guys who won't take crap from anyone, y'know? Also strong and silent. _And_ programmed with subliminal assassination protocols. Yeah. Talk about something outta science fiction. Oh, _wait_. We have freaking _wings_, people! _Tell_ me you saw that in a movie somewhere.

But that's another thing about me: I have those protocols, too. All it takes is the proper trigger, and I turn into a killing machine. That was what caused me to slaughter all the "failed" Mark Twos from my "batch" about six months ago. Not a pretty memory, but I'll tell you what (and not out of arrogance, either; just out of fact), one of those Erasers couldn't have done better. But back to the story.

About two weeks before we left the School (don't know why it's called that; ain't anybody there who learns other than the PhD-wielding folks), Derek and I were tossed into some last-minute training. Every day, we ran on treadmills for two hours, lifted weights for one, and fought living targets for another little while. Sometimes we fought each other. Sometimes we fought . . . other things. I noticed that, despite deeming the Erasers failures, the scientists at the School liked to play with the human-lupine hybrid formula. It's like they couldn't let go of the idea of real-life werewolves. Besides, when you need executioners, you want brute strength and pure nasty over "perfection," so maybe that was their reason behind the continued Eraser research. So, if you didn't guess it already, there was _always_ an Eraser or two waiting to take a crack at us Mark Twos. Sometimes Derek and I fought them together; sometimes we fought them separately. Either way, we tried every trick in our books to come out on top, and most times we did. And by "most times," I mean that I once saw some horrible claw scars on Derek's wing, barely hidden by the feathers. I had yet to have scars that bad. Even though the Director let me fight dirty whenever I was in training, it seemed that everybody was on "don't ruin the specimen" orders. So that's it? I'm _just_ a "valuable specimen"? Well, not for long. One day, _I'll_ have the last laugh.

But I guess I've gone off track again. Derek and I were sent on our way, one backpack apiece loaded with various things we might need: water, high-protein granola bars, what have you. Things to keep us going, at least for a little while. We didn't have maps, though; didn't need 'em. Little thing known as instinct; we've got internal compasses. That's one point about this bird kid business that I actually _like_—well, that and my simply gorgeous wings. Yes, that was me bragging. Those wings are my single weakness. We didn't have much to go on except that the last sight of six bird kids was somewhere around San Diego, maybe one of the suburbs. (You'll understand the point behind not giving us any leads if you understand the Director. She wanted me to hunt them, get on their side, be their "friend," then bring the hammer down. Funny; that sounded an awful lot like what the Erasers were good for, minus the "get on their side" and "be their friend" parts.) So we took off early in the morning, backpacks on our shoulders and the wind in our faces. It was my first time truly flying, and, damn, I _loved_ it. The pumping of my wings got to be a soothing rhythm, and every time my shoulder muscles flexed, I couldn't help but revel in the strength I felt. Now I just couldn't wait to get this mission over with (preferably to my advantage) and get out on my own. Maybe I'd move to the country somewhere so I could have all the flying space I could possibly want. But that was only if things worked out the way I wanted.

We'd been flying about six hours; three hours up, we stopped in some park and munched on some of our "provisions" to keep our strength up. Even then, Derek said hardly a word to me. Okay, so the guy didn't like me. I was cool with that; I didn't like him, either. Just because he was the only survivor of the Mark Twos assigned to Dr. Batchelder didn't mean he was _better_ than me. Besides . . . _I_ was the Director's pet. I was the one with the device in my brain that allowed me to have instant telepathic communication with _her_ . . . sort of like an in-brain cell phone—minus the touch screen and camera. And if he were so intent on being high-and-mighty, well, I'd just leave him out of my plan to play both sides against the middle. But me, I'd lead Itex on a bit of a wild goose chase. Let them keep hunting for that stupid Flock while I scampered off to live my _own_ life, to enjoy the years allotted to me before my expiration date kicked in. But enough of that—for now, anyway.

We were cruising along at forty thousand feet—far higher than the Flock ever could, thanks in no small part to the extra one percent of bird in us—and all I could think about was how pretty we'd all be sittin'—_flying_, fine—if that infernal Maximum still had her tracker chip. Derek was pretty good at a computer, so the tales went; he could drag up a GPS tracker and find her in a heartbeat. Then that wild goose chase I'd planned would begin. That part sounded so frikkin' fun, and if the kids got killed in the process, so what? I'd just skip town early and never be heard from again. It was better than being "retired," anyway. So you see, this wasn't about them. This was about _me_. About survival—mine. And that chip would've made it a whole lot easier, but _noooo_ . . . she just _had_ to go and get it cut out. _Fantastic_ work, girl. Not! I frowned, still flapping. Time to get down to business—or at least work on getting there. I glanced at Derek. He was still silent. As usual.

"Y'think there's even a chance we'll find 'em before they drop off the edge of the planet?" I asked.

I saw his red-brown eyes disappear into his skull as he rolled them. I furrowed my eyebrows, irritated with him. I'd asked one simple question because, hey—it was a good one! He tilted his head at me, peering at me out from underneath nearly shoulder-length hair. The boy seriously needed a haircut, lemme tell you. He didn't say anything for a while; he just kept pumping his red-tailed hawk-styled wings. I would never tell him, but I did admire those wings. They _were_ beautiful. Finally, he sighed faintly.

"It depends. We go where they were last seen and pick up the trail from there. Easy."

I _know_, genius! That was my assignment! That's the reason we weren't given a pair of maps with big read arrows reading "Go here!" I exhaled heavily, perhaps mildly sarcastically, and watched with extremely faint amusement as my breath formed vapor. It was fairly cold up there at forty-k feet; I was just glad I had my windbreaker and knit ski cap. And, believe it or not, as annoying as Derek probably thought I was, well, let's just say the feeling was mutual. _I_ rolled _my_ eyes (I've been told they're cold, hard, and emotionless) at _him_ and tucked my hands safely into my windbreaker's pockets. As I mulled over potential snappy comebacks, a lock of shaggy auburn hair got free of my ski cap and tumbled into my mouth. I spit it out before glancing at Derek.

"And if it's not easy? _Then_ what's your plan, evil mastermind?"

He silently arched an eyebrow at me, and his expression didn't even mask his thought: "Why did you have to be such a pain in the ass?"

"Then _you_ call the Director," he muttered, no doubt wondering to himself why I didn't already know this stuff. Truth is, I did; I was just testing him to see if _he_ knew. "After all, she _is_ the one backing you, especially after that fiasco with that kid Omega."

I chuckled wryly, nodding. Yeah, Omega. Everybody remembered him even though they tried not to. He was supposed to be the perfect human, except for one little problem: he wasn't good at visual tracking. _Oops._ Oh, man, that was a story that would never get old . . . I was still laughing over it even though it was years old and I'd only heard it recently. But hey. I guess little problems like that are bound to crop up when you try to turn somebody into a freakin' _robot_. And yet, I couldn't help but feel a little irritated. Maybe my blood sugar was getting low, I dunno, but it almost sounded as if Derek were comparing me to that stupid, failing Omega. Well, nobody had any call to compare me to him. I was _better_ than he could have _ever_ been. The end of my left wing twitched a bit; I've noticed that it does that whenever I get annoyed, and it twitched this time because I knew I would _not_ have any trouble finding Maximum and her precious Flock of troublemakers.

"Yeah, I can just hear myself," I scoffed. "'Mommy, help! I can't find the bird kids!'"

I laughed dryly, receiving only another eye roll from Derek. He just pumped his wings a little faster and eased ahead a bit, trying to pick up speed. I didn't follow, but instead hung back to crack my neck and work out the kinks. It always felt as if my neck was the first thing to go stiff in flight. Always. As soon as my neck was limber again, I glanced over my shoulder to admire my wings. My, they _were_ beautiful, though. The best thing Itex had ever done. Seriously. I can't say as how I'm attached to the Director; I mean, it's not like I love her to death or anything. Personally, I hate her guts. I think she's a socialist rhymes-with-witch. Her childhood playmates were probably Stalin and Hitler. But she _did_ give me my gorgeous wings, so I had to give her kudos for that. Oh, I only wished Derek could've seen my wings before . . . when they were horribly brown and _D-U-L_. Yes, I did spell that with one _l_. Emphasizes how boring they really were. So, yeah, I'm immensely proud of my wings. They're better than that Maximum's flappers, anyway—a perk of the extra percent of avian DNA hanging around in me. _My_ wings could tuck in much more smoothly than hers probably ever could, making me look totally normal and seamless, not to mention incredibly streamlined for high-speed dives. Like I said, I was created for this. I wasn't _just_ an experiment, after all. And, yes, I'm extremely arrogant when it comes to my wings. Just deal with it.

So Derek and I coasted along for a while, soaring up on currents when we could and flapping easily the rest of the time. We stayed quiet for a good long time; after all, when there's not much to say, why say anything? After a minute, I dared to glance at him. His eyes were fixed firmly on the sky right in front of him, but even that normally unreadable face of his didn't hide the fact that he just loved, loved, _loved_ being up there flying.

"So you got our story straight for when we meet 'em?" I asked, not being able to not think about that pivotal moment.

He just sighed and nodded, not even looking at me.

"We just broke out of the School ourselves; we wanna help; we ain't plants," he recited in a bored monotone. "The kid with the mind-reading scans us, we block subtly, she clears us. You call the Director, she sends in the 'bots. Flock dies, we go home."

Ah, yes, it was the perfect plan. But, Derek, I do not want it to work out _exactly_ like that. Some chasing. Some leading Itex around in circles. Some leading the Flock right into the Director's hands and then yanking them back. This was going to be a big game of cat-and-mouse, and the cat had fourteen-foot-wings. Oh yeah. I nodded slowly, mulling over another little plan I had stashed up my sleeve. It was called Plan Martyrdom. That was when, if I wasn't making good progress on the "be their friend" part, I called in the 'bots early. They'd hurt me, I'd be all heroic and beg the bird kids to run for their lives and sacrifice me for their safety . . . I'd get "captured," taken back for a bit of a progress report, and once I was recuperated, it was back on the job! The thing was, if it worked properly, I'd be welcomed back as a hero and earn the Flock's undying admiration for my selfless act of gallantry. Hurrah, hurrah, three cheers, and blah, blah, _blah_. It was so simple it couldn't _not_ work. And then there was that "play both sides against the middle which is me" business. I stole another glance at Derek.

"Actually, I was thinking we could ditch Itex once the job's done," I said, and I noted that Derek's interest was peaked. Bingo. "The way I figure it, once those kids are outta the picture, we'll be headin' that way too. What's the current favorite word? 'Retired.'"

From the corner of my eye, I noticed that he shuddered at the mention of that. Ah, so the ever-strong Derek was afraid of being deemed a "failure" and terminated? Well . . . who wasn't? Let's face it. It's not a nice thought, to walk in there, go to sleep, and never wake up again. Or, if you were particularly naughty, you'd get clawed to death by those Eraser executioners that were hanging around specifically for that job.

"Yeah, we'll hafta," he said slowly, then paused to look at me. "I hear that the bird kids don't have an expiration."

That took me by such surprise that, if it weren't for that whole "falling outta the sky" thing, I would've stopped flapping. That was . . . news. And, to be honest, it made me freakishly jealous. I was more afraid of dropping dead from an expiration date than of getting slaughtered by a certain bunch of werewolves.

"They don't? Huh. That's news."

That's all I said as I went back to thinking. What if it was true, that they really didn't have expiration dates? What if I _did_? When would it go off? How would I know? Well, I wouldn't; I wouldn't know until the date popped up on the back of my neck a few days in advance. By then . . . it'd be too late. I shuddered to think and decided right then that I did _not_ want to die. Ever. If they were spared expirations, then that was all the more reason for me to play up my own survival. Derek cruised up next to me and sighed a bit.

"Babe, we're built same as them," he said. "We might, they might, and then again, we both might not."

"We're also _Mark Two_," I replied, maybe a little hotly. Heaven knew that I was terrified of my own expiration, whenever it was. "Best of the best. Out of all the Mark Twos they created, we're the only ones that've lasted. Only ones that didn't get scrubbed early."

I paused, mulling over how morbid that had just sounded. Gross. And then I realized . . . he had _not_ just used a pet name on me . . . had he?! Double gross. I shuddered inwardly, trying not to gag, but I managed to get over it when Derek sighed and looked at me.

"So are they," he said quietly, turning away.

I blinked a bit. He'd never been that . . . emotional. And, knowing us, that _was_ emotional. I'd never cried a day in my life. But I shrugged it off and adjusted my windbreaker against the chilly wind, wondering to myself why we couldn't fly closer to the warm ground. I mean, we wouldn't be _that_ much of a shock to the Earthlings . . . because, hey. I'd seen stories of "Bird Kids Are Human, Too" bumper stickers popping up on the backs of '83 Pontiacs and '85 Crown Vics. Human, my foot. Well, ninety-eight percent . . . ninety-seven in my case. Ninety-seven percent human and probably a ticking time bomb. Talk about a way to increase your self-confidence.

I just flew along, thinking, until a sudden motion from Derek startled me. He peeled away from me, tucking his wings down and diving downward. My gaze followed him, and my super-sharp vision brought the city of San Diego to full clarity and awesome sharpness. I hadn't even realized we'd arrived until Derek broke off and started diving down toward it, but a sudden excitement rushed through me as I tucked in my own wings and streaked through the clouds. Wind whistled through my feathers as I rocketed down after Derek. San Diego, here we come!

Oh, and Maximum? You're next. Right after I drool over this big city.


	4. 3: San Diego

**Chapter Three - San Diego**

You'd think that two teenagers actually _flying_ would cause a bit of a ruckus. Yeah, _right_. We were able to swoop down and land right on top of a skyscraper, and nobody even noticed. And how do I know this? Well, no police choppers were rising up, and no cop cars were racing down the streets. Instead, there was a traffic jam up the road a bit, and I figured I knew why. It was late afternoon, early evening, so folks were probably headed home from work to cook dinner for their spouse, three kids, two dogs, and one fat cat. Then again, maybe most of these working people were headed home for a microwave dinner in front of the TV. Of course, if that were me, I'd have to fix about six of those microwave dinners. Girl with a healthy appetite, that's me!

So Derek and I landed on top of a skyscraper. It wasn't like we were doing a King Kong thing or whatever; we certainly weren't clinging to the pointy part of the Empire State Building. Actually, the 'scraper we ended up on was flat on top, so I figured it was an office building, hotel, or apartment complex. Derek's landing was so smooth and so easy-looking that I was envious. I'd never been good at landing; I always sort of skidded to a halt and ended up looking cartoony. Then again, he'd had more time than I had to practice, and he prided himself on his flight talents. Me, I just folded my wings in and hoped I actually landed on the roof.

When I _did_ land, however clumsy it was, I tucked my wings back in and shoved my hands in my pockets. I'll tell you what, if there's one good thing about being three percent bird, it's having wings that fold in so smoothly that nobody would know at first glance that I was three percent house sparrow (I'm never gonna get over that . . .). I came up quietly behind Derek, looking out over San Diego. I'd spent my life seeing nothing more than the inside of the School, much less a giant metropolis, so I was the figurative "hick in the big city." I didn't even try to hide my overwhelming sense of being tiny, so my eyes were as big as Frisbees. I stared around at San Diego in all its late afternoon urban glory, but then I looked down. Fifty-plus stories up and no apparent means of getting down, save our wings. My stomach turned a somersault, and I had a moment where I wondered if I had acrophobia. Oh, wouldn't _that_ be something to report to the Director? "Yeah, I'm not only half-deaf, but I'm also scared to death of heights!" I just hoped I _wasn't_ afraid of heights. I glanced over at Derek.

"I'm thinking you weren't considering getting down again," I said, still looking down at the ground far, _far_ below.

"Well, we have to eat sometime," he replied with a shrug. "Can't eat air or sunlight, so there's gotta be a staircase around here somewhere. Most skyscrapers would have one, anyway."

Can't eat air or sunlight, huh? Well, I _knew_ that, but it sure would make the Mark Twos more efficient if they could! Maybe the Mark Threes will be four percent bird and two percent plant so they can have wings _and_ photosynthesis. Sarcasm much. I put a hand over my stomach when it growled audibly. Flying for hours on end was murder on the blood sugar levels, and at the end of it, I always felt like my insides were trying to eat themselves.

"I could _really_ go for a pizza right about now," I sighed, "or three."

I chuckled a bit. It was so hilarious how I could eat whatever I wanted whenever I wanted and never gain an ounce. So I was seventeen, five-foot-ten, and . . . oh . . . a hundred and two pounds of hollow, lightweight bones and well-toned muscle. Ever heard the phrase "You eat like a bird"? I do, all the time. And dang, it is _fabulous_. I shook my head a bit, still finding that funny, and Derek looked over at me and actually _grinned_. At me! Remember, he doesn't _like_ me! He thinks I'm an arrogant, stuck-up, spoiled-rotten little Mark Two! (Well, that's primarily true, but don't tell.)

"How's about we head on down and find someplace where we can sit down, order lots of food, and not have the waiters stare at us?" he asked, and I heard this pathetic little moan come out of me. "Or maybe they'll just have big plates."

"Ooh, can we?" I asked, sounding like a starving little wretch. "Oh, Lord, steak . . ."

I sighed with want. Just the thought of a big, thick, juicy steak seared to medium-rare perfection was _really_ starting to get to me. I mean, anything would've been better than that protein mush I was served day in and day out back at the School! And, well, you know how they say that the way to a man's heart is through his belly? Let's rephrase that to fit me: "The way to Project Delilah's heart is through her stomach." There we go. That sounds more like it. So, yeah, if Derek fed me, I'd be willing to at least consider cutting him in on my "ditch the bird kids, ditch Itex, save myself" plan. After all, if he was willing to buy me a steak, it would be a worthwhile investment. He turned and waved me off toward this doorway in an outbuilding of sorts settled up there on the roof, and when we opened the door, there was a stairwell headed down. Lovely; we wouldn't have to fly down and be conspicuous. So we trooped down the stairs, ended up on the highest floor of the building (which was indeed a hotel), and then took the elevator down to the lobby. When we hit the ground floor, we got out and headed straight for the receptionist desk. Derek smiled big and charmingly and asked for details on the nearest restaurant with _big_ meals. The receptionist made some little joke about how hungry we were before giving us directions to this place called "The Cheesecake Factory." That sounded almost better than steak, and I had to swallow to keep from drooling with this "I've gotta have some" mentality I suddenly had. Derek thanked the receptionist and off we went, headed downtown.

The walk was a long one, and I would've rather flown, but we couldn't risk being noticed. Besides, we got to see San Diego from the perspective of regular humans and not the—ahem—birds' eye view we were accustomed to. We walked for a while, dashing through crosswalks and dodging cars whose drivers weren't exactly paying attention. The funny thing about that was that when they nearly ran us over, they acted like _we_ were the morons. Yeah, right. I just rolled my eyes and kept going, and I heard Derek sigh in exasperation. Who knew that the rat race would be so bad?

We crossed probably our umpteenth crosswalk at one point, and on the other side was this kind-faced lady with some little brown books in her hands. I was planning on just passing by, not paying any attention, but she reached out and tapped me on the shoulder as I walked by. Now, know that when someone touches me, it usually means that I need to fight. So I wheeled around, almost bringing my fists up, but she just smiled at me.

"I'm sorry to startle you," she said.

"'S all right," I replied. I was about to walk off again, but what she said next made me stop cold.

"I'd like to give you something."

I looked askance at her; no one _ever_ wanted to give _me_ something, unless you count the scientists who thought I was a failure without ever seeing me in action and who wanted to _give_ me a bullet to the brain. Derek was coming up slowly behind me, watching the situation cautiously, almost as if he were silently warning me not to take things from strangers. After all, there are stories on the news all the time about children who took candy and car rides from people they didn't know and who were never ever seen again. But this was neither candy nor a car ride; it was a book. Thankfully, I knew how to read. Handy, that. Anyway, the lady pressed one of her books into my hands, and I looked down at its brown leather cover. There, embossed in gold print across the front, were the words "Holy Bible." I looked up, a bit confused, and she just smiled at me.

"It's a gift," she said. "I want you to have it because even if you feel like no one else cares about you, there's Someone who does."

I nodded and murmured a "thank you" as I took the Bible and walked off. Somebody cared about me? Ha, unlikely. Nobody cared what happened to me, _except_ me. But I was a bit curious about the book I'd just been given, so I flipped it open to a random point: _"And Abraham begat Isaac, and Isaac begat Jacob . . ."_ I read on a bit; this was just a long genealogy list! Hopefully there was more to this Bible than just lists of "so-and-so begat so-and-so." I flipped to another spot, back toward the beginning. There was a whole slew of things starting with "Thou shall not," but one in particular really jumped out at me: _"Thou shall not kill."_ Hmm. Now, that was the first thing I'd _ever_ read in a Bible, but if that lady who thought there was somebody who cared about me was right, then maybe that somebody didn't like folks killing each other. And that would flush my plan right down the drain. I tugged my backpack off, unzipped it, and tossed the Bible inside, zipping the backpack back up and slinging it over my shoulder. Derek looked at me a moment but didn't say anything.

We eventually arrived at this Cheesecake Factory place, and when we walked through the door, I almost screamed "SHUT UP ALREADY!" at my stomach. It was a bit noisy in there, what with all the people talking and whatnot, but it only bothered me half as much as it would an average person. Y'know _why_ it didn't bother me quite so much? Right. I could only hear half of it. I was _starving_ because I'd gone so long without food, but I managed to suck my eyeballs back into their sockets by the time a bouncy-looking waitress came and took us off to a table. She didn't even question what two kids were doing in there by themselves; I guess we looked like we were on a date. Ew. That, my friends, is a _nauseating_ thought. So we were led off to a table and handed menus, and then came the hard part: choosing. There was already a bowl of hot, fresh bread coming our way, and Derek's eyes were as big as the bread plates. I felt like mine were, too. We scanned the menus for a while as the waitress stood by to take our order, but then I saw Derek's gaze go off toward another table where some people were already eating. I followed that glance, saw _massive_ plates, and locked gazes with Derek. Perfect.

"I think we'll be safe ordering _one thing_ here," he said, voice fairly low, "not counting dessert."

"Now the only problem is figuring out _what_ to pick," I scoffed, then smiled up at the waitress and asked for a bit of help. I was too hungry to make up my own mind.

As the waitress gave us her suggestions, something that smelled absolutely _divine_ passed our table. I looked up and found this _huge_ steak being delivered to a gentleman who looked like he really didn't need the extra cholesterol. Hm . . . I glanced at the menu again, then pointed.

"I think I'll have that steak," I announced. Immediately, I felt a chill run down my spine when the waitress eyed me strangely.

"That steak's sixteen ounces," she said.

Ahh, yes, the trouble with being three percent bird: you want to and can eat more than most folks consider "normal." I just beamed innocently.

"Well, I'll just have to hope you have a doggie bag, then," I replied.

Derek smirked at me as the waitress scribbled down my steak and I asked for a glass of water to go with it. After a moment, Derek looked up and faintly cleared his throat.

"I'll take a tuna steak, seared, medium, with a Caesar salad side," he said, earning a nod of approval from our waitress. Apparently _someone_ was a health nut.

The waitress took down our orders and double-checked them with us before scampering off to the kitchen. As she left, I shook my head and chuckled under my breath.

"Doggie bag, my foot."

I looked up in time to see Derek grin and wink at me, seriously taking me by surprise. The thought of food must've been affecting him in _strange_ ways. Evidently, he couldn't stand me at any time other than when we were both half-starved. He reached over and ripped a piece of bread off the practical loaf in the basket.

"No kidding," he replied. "More like, uh, _no_ bag?"

"Like, just put it all on a plate and shove it into our hands as we head out the door!"

Derek nodded and gave a little "I know what you mean" eye roll before we tore into the bread. I'm sure it was designed to keep a person occupied before their dinner arrived, but for us, it was barely an appetizer. I'd never been that hungry in my life; normally, back at the School, if I started showing the first signs of hunger, they'd take me aside and load me up with an injection of carbs and protein to hold me over until my next real meal. Between the two of us, Derek and I polished off all the bread _and_ butter within five minutes. And we were still hungry. Look, it isn't _my_ fault I eat like a pig! And folks think _normal_ teenagers eat a lot . . . Folks, you ain't seen _nothin'_ until you've watched a bird kid eat. But, thankfully, about fifteen minutes after Derek and I finished off the bread, our food arrived, and I was about ready to chew on my own arm again. The smell of my steak got closer . . . closer . . . _closer_ . . . and then my pound of protein was sitting right in front of me, its delicious, juicy, meaty fragrance wafting up to me. I thought I'd faint but managed not to. Instead, I decided I wanted perfume that smelled like that steak. I daintily cut into my steak, trying not to look, well, _obvious_, and I managed to steal a glance at Derek's plate. The salad he'd ordered was _huge_—at least three times as big as his tuna! But those plates were humongous, so saying that it took up a quarter of his plate means that it would probably take up half of a normal plate. So it was still a pretty good-sized chunk of fish flesh. I tried to be polite about eating, but I thought I'd pass out from the lovely steak fumes; a moment later, I saw Derek pick up both forks and go after both fish _and_ salad. Okay, so if he didn't think it necessary to be neat and proper about eating, then neither did I. So I started cutting into my steak just a little faster. And as soon as the first bite hit my tongue . . . Oh, my word . . . Heaven on a fork, lemme tell ya. To a kid who's grown up on protein mush and carb shots, that sixteen-ounce piece of prime beef was food for the gods. Then again, I doubted Zeus' chef could top _this_ . . . I sighed happily, going in for another bite, and the waitress shook her head in near disbelief.

"Young'uns . . ." she sighed. "Always wolf down their food like it's going outta style! First those six or so scrawny things that came in here a couple days back, now you two. Must be hormones . . ."

She shook her head again and headed off, and I looked up at Derek, still chewing and savoring every yummy little morsel. So, six scrawny kids, eh? Well, now, talk about a good break. I hadn't thought they'd be so close . . . Maybe they'd gotten careless and had stopped running for a while. Well, even better for me. My steak tasted even better (if that were even possible) as I thought about how absolutely perfectly this little assignment was going. I also noticed that at the mention of the six scrawny kids, Derek had paused and met my gaze. I knew he was thinking the same thing I was, but I couldn't be sure about whose side he was on. I know he'd been one of the Mark Twos assigned to Jeb Batchelder for training, and I knew Batchelder played the role of surrogate father to the Flock, so I didn't know if Derek's mission goal was the same as mine.

"If she was calling us scrawny," he said slowly, "I may give 'er somethin' extra with her tip."

How about a nice fat tip and a "Thanks for the help" note signed "Love, Itex"? That sounded good. I nodded a bit, turning my attention back to my plate as I shoved the renegade bird kids—and those pesky words "Thou shall not kill"—from my mind for the time being. Besides, was _I_ actually gonna be doing the killing? Uh, no. Was I going to be delivering them unto the slaughter? Um . . . yes. A teensy tiny section of my mind wondered if that were the same thing as putting bullets through them myself. I shrugged it off and polished off my divinely good steak in record time.

The waitress came back to check on us, and we were ready for dessert by then. Derek and I each ordered a _big_ chunk of cheesecake; mine had chocolate and cherries all over it. I might've eaten that just a little slower than I ate the steak; after all, why rush through the only wonderful dessert you might ever get to have? I'll tell you what, that cheesecake was _fabulous_. You'll feel really good if you go eat some, but you'll feel even better if you run ten miles first.

Eventually, Derek and I finished up and were thoroughly stuffed. The waitress returned with the bill and took our plates, and I fished out the debit card the Director had given me. This was a card with an insanely high limit on it, and it was in my name, to boot. Talk about convenient. So when the waitress came back _again_, I gave her my card and signed the slip when she returned. The name on the card was _Delilah Janssen_ (Madam Evil's last name; how perfectly ironic! Not!), so I signed that with a flourish and a grin. The card came back, I shoved it back in my pocket, and Derek and I cleared out of there. I didn't really want to leave the temple of delicious-smelling food, but I really didn't have an option. I had more important things to be doing, anyway—like finding those stupid bird kids. And making sure I came out on top. And not looking suspicious. Ahem.

Derek and I started walking back uptown to "our" skyscraper, taking it easy so our food could digest in relative peace. We did a little window shopping before a bit of real shopping; he'd suggested we buy some sunglasses to shield our eyes against wind and sun during flight. So we hopped into a little shop and bought two pairs of shades, and we each got a spare set of clothing in case something should happen. I mean, I wouldn't want to have an Icarus moment and then come out looking like I'd just been in a wet tee-shirt contest down at the local bar. While we were at the cash register waiting on the cashier to ring us up, I heard this high-pitched, overly caffeinated voice behind me.

"Oh, my gosh, you hair is, like, _soooo_ awesome! Where'd you get it done?!"

I turned around, and there was a rather hyper, ditzy-looking blonde behind me. Her hair was done up in what I guessed was the latest style, and she was wearing clothes that she obviously thought were cool but I most certainly did _not_. I pointed at myself.

"Me?"

"Like, yeah!" she replied.

"Um . . . well . . ." _Think fast, Del. This is just a regular teenager who's had one too many Red Bulls._ "I did it myself."

Brilliant, girl, brilliant. But hey—it was the truth. I _had_ cut my hair myself. It had been reaching down past my backside, so I'd grabbed scissors and gone _snip_. The next thing I knew, I had chin-length hair in a bunch of messy, uneven layers that made me look as if I'd just gotten out of bed. Thank goodness it was easy to wash and didn't require much care—any, really. Well, the teen looked totally impressed.

"You did it yourself? Wow! I mean, I get mine done at the best salon in town, but they never really cut it even. That is, like, so freakin' cool! I'm _so_ getting my hair done like yours next time!"

I nodded a bit and shrugged. Derek looked like he was about to throw slap up because of the overly bubbly girl. But, thankfully, the cashier rung us up, ran my card, handed me the slip, then slid our bags to us. Derek and I started slipping away, and when Bubbly Girl was preoccupied by the cashier and her own purchases, we made a break for it. Once we were out and headed back down the street, Derek and I exchanged a glance that said everything we needed to: "That girl was _weird_." Then again, who were we to be talking, we of the winged generation?

We walked along the sidewalks for a while; it was beginning to get dark, and flying for six hours before gorging on steak and cheesecake was beginning to take its toll on me. I was getting tired and was ready to worry about the Flock tomorrow. And, knowing me, if I were thinking _that_, then I _was_ exhausted. I voiced this opinion of hitting the hay (or, in our case, the roof of a hotel) to Derek, and he didn't reply with words: he replied by flagging down a taxi. Well, look who was gettin' all cosmopolitan on me! We jumped in, told the driver to take us to the first street I'd remembered seeing after we left the hotel, and in a little while, we were there. Derek dug out some cash and paid him, and we hopped out, walking the rest of the distance to the building. Eventually, we wound up in a dark alley not too far from the hotel, so we slipped into it, spread our wings, and shot right up to the roof. Who needs elevators and stairs when you have flappers? Derek got there before me and practically froze, and when I fluttered to a halt next to him (I was getting better at my landings—a bit), I stared at him.

"What?" I asked. "Oh, don't tell me that stupid Director—"

I broke off, having meant to finish with "sent the 'bots early," but my gaze latched onto what it was that he was staring at. Six figures lounged on the other side of the roof, seated in something of a circle, backs to us. I took another look at them in the fading evening light and saw six pairs of wings. No way . . . no _way_! I did a mental recap on everything I'd ever been told about my targets: three boys, three girls. Check. Three older ones, three younger ones. Also check. My eyes went wide as all I could do was stare. This was unbelievable . . . No freaking way! But I couldn't doubt my perfect eyesight. It was the Flock. Right in my own backyard, so to speak.

Holy crap.


	5. 4: Meeting My Targets

**Chapter Four – Meeting My Targets**

It's funny: ever since I could remember, I'd been trained for this moment, I'd planned it, rehearsed it in my head, and now that I was actually here, I couldn't move. I could hardly breathe, and I just froze. I couldn't move even when one of _them_ turned around, gaped at me and Derek, then wheeled around and tugged on another's sleeve, talking about as fast as an Indy car drives. A moment later, that other one waved Fast Talker off and turned, and I found myself staring right into a pair of deep brown eyes set in a face that seemed at least partially Hispanic. I swallowed hard. This wasn't . . . was it? The talkative one sprung to her feet and whirled around, dark eyes locked on me and Derek.

"_See_, Max? I TOLD you there was somebody up here! Don't know how they got up here, though, what with the staircase being _locked_ . . ."

My heart skipped a beat as a sudden, unexpected surge of adrenaline surged through me, making my fingertips and toes tingle and bringing a bitter metallic taste to my mouth. _Max._ I had no doubt that was followed by "-imum" and "Ride." If I weren't so keen on making sure I stayed alive and came out on top at all costs, and if I were as bloodthirsty as those stupid Eraser mongrels, I would've lunged, strangled her, and been done with it. Then I would've dealt with the others. But no . . . All I could do was stand there, seeming pretty much stupefied. There I was, standing face to face with very person I'd been born to kill. It was . . . well, it was enough to make my mind spin. A couple of the other bird kids turned and looked at me, and though they didn't say anything, I thought I saw a jaw drop in shock. Max waved the chattery kid off and crossed her arms.

"I _was_ listening, Nudge," she scoffed. "Honestly."

Huh. That sounded awfully familiar . . . It was _my_ sarcasm level. I hadn't thought there was somebody else in the world that could possibly be as sarcastic as I was prone to being at times. Her eyes were piercing, almost accusative, as she studied Derek and me.

"Well?" she asked. "Who are you?"

"My name's Derek," Derek said, covering because I was still dumbfounded, "and this is Del."

Somebody behind Max demanded loudly to know what we looked like, and I couldn't help but roll my eyes. A younger one, by the looks of things, poked her head out from around Max. I tried desperately to remember everything I'd learned. We had Leader Max, Chatty Nudge, and . . . Oh, for goodness' sake! Why couldn't I remember?! Then I felt a tingling in the back of my mind, and I knew instantly. Leader Max, Chatty Nudge, and Mind-reading Angel. She was searching our minds, trying to see if we were a threat. I slowly, stealthily erected a mental shield to keep her out, and the change from my real mind to my guarded one was so smooth you couldn't tell the difference. After a moment, the tingling stopped, and Angel just looked at us with a pair of big blue eyes.

"They . . . they don't seem to mean harm . . ." she said, and I breathed a mental sigh of relief from within my shield.

"Well, Derek," Max said, seeming as if she'd push us off the roof if we gave her a good enough reason, "mind telling us _exactly_ who you are?"

"Bird kids," Derek replied. "From the School. Just like you."

At that, Max frowned and shifted her weight to one leg, still scrutinizing us. I had a split-second where I feared she wouldn't go for it, but Derek _was_ telling the truth, after all . . . Except I _wasn't_ just like them. And why? Well, I guess it's time I told this tale. Remember how I've been saying I was designed specifically for this assignment? That's the honest truth. The thing is, even though I _look_ seventeen, _act_ seventeen, and pretty much _am_ seventeen, I've only lived for two years. From the moment I was conceived as a test-tube baby, the scientists injected me periodically with growth hormones to grow me faster, make me age faster. They started tapering off the injections when I got old enough, and when I "turned" fifteen, they stopped completely and flushed my system of the hormone treatment. After that, I continued to age normally, just like any other kid. Just like the Flock. Like Derek. If I don't have an expiration and my "me first" plan goes off without a hitch, I'll get to live to be a little ol' winged granny. Oh, and I don't have parents, either. Well, I guess I do, but I'm sure they're no more than a couple techs from the School. I can hear it now: "Hey, we need your genes because we're gonna build a bird kid assassin!" Or, maybe it went like this: "Ma'am, mind donating an egg? Oh, and sir, can we borrow some sperm cells? Please and thank you! And somebody go catch that sparrow on the windowsill!" But I don't care, and I never did. I've always been a loner, always will be one. But back to the story.

When Derek introduced us, I could only nod slowly. I guess I was still shell-shocked from finally meeting my targets. But a breeze whipped across the top of the hotel, stinging my eyes and smacking me awake. I snapped out of the haze I was in, and from within the safety of my mental shield, I started planning out the "be their friend" part of my mission. I jabbed a thumb over my shoulder.

"I can show you . . ." I said. "Got some real good proof back here."

No freakin' _duh_. Fourteen feet, give or take a little, and I had a strange feeling that they were growing. Again. _Sigh._ Across the way, a dark-haired bird kid sat hunched over a laptop (?!) of all things, and he looked up at me for all of two seconds before pretty much ignoring me. Well! Talk about your warm welcome—_not!_ Speaking of could-be-warmer welcomes, Max kept frowning at Derek and me before he took a step forward and unfolded his wings. Little (ten years old at the most) Angel gasped in surprise and clapped a hand over her own mouth as Derek's red-tailed hawk-style wings spread out. Nudge's mouth dropped open, but nothing (and I mean _nothin'_) came out. Talk about a miracle. I followed Derek's lead and shook out my wings, fluttering the feathers until they were almost completely extended. And it felt so . . . dang . . . _good_ to release the tension back there, to shake the kinks out of my shoulder muscles (which are more developed than most folks' lemme tell ya). I let them all see my birthday present, my undeniably gorgeous wings, and about two seconds after I relaxed my wings, Nudge gasped and started up again.

"Omigosh, those are the absolute most AWESOME wings EVER!" she gushed. "What with the gold and the brown and the . . ."

She sighed dreamily, staring at my precious wings, and I fought down a smirk. Those were my sentiments exactly. I remembered the day I'd gotten them all beautified. I'd stayed in front of a mirror for a good two hours just admiring them, stroking the feathers, gently flapping them. If there's one thing that makes me arrogant and oh-so-vain, it's my wings. I noticed that Angel nodded slowly; her gaze was latched onto my wings, also. And Max? Well, she looked unimpressed. I frowned to myself before there was a rustling behind her. The bird kid who'd demanded to know what we looked like climbed up, and I realized, trying not to stare, that he was topping six feet. I myself was five-ten and, from what I'd heard of the scientist-speak, that was as tall as I was gettin'. But this kid . . . He must've been crossed with a _huge_ bird. I estimated he was six-one, maybe six-two, maybe more, and from what I could tell, he had these really pale blue eyes and a head full of strawberry blond hair—and, holy crap, was he _cute_ . . . Ahem! I noticed that Derek had craned his neck upward slightly to get a better look at the relative giant, who had stopped about two inches behind Max.

"Is _somebody_ gonna explain these guys to me or what?!"

At that moment, there was a sinking feeling in my stomach as I realized . . . he couldn't see us. This one was _blind_. For a second, I frowned internally at the Director. What a waste of my skills, sending me after a blind mutant! (Then again, I'm a half-deaf mutant, so . . .) Talk about your anticlimax, though. Nudge turned around and grabbed his arm, leading him over to us. I locked gazes with Max for all of one second before Nudge grabbed my attention.

"They're two bird-kids, Iggy!" she was saying. "The girl's got the absolute most _beautiful_ wings on planet Earth . . . And they said they escaped from the School. Didn't they say that? Yeah, they did. But _beautiful_ wings . . ."

She sighed dreamily, almost wistfully, again, and this time, I chuckled. But that chuckle faded as the blind one—Iggy—frowned a bit. So maybe it wasn't the greatest idea to mention the gorgeousness of my wings since he couldn't see them for himself, anyway. But Nudge dragged him over to me, and I took a step forward to make up the difference. The next thing I knew, he gently ran his hands over my face, rubbed a lock of my hair between his fingertips, and smoothed a hand across my wings. The whole while, I stayed perfectly calm and collected. No sense in doing anything stupid. But the whole time we were being introduced, as it were, I couldn't help but feel . . . well . . . _something_. I didn't think it was guilt, but I wasn't sure. Something wasn't right deep down inside me . . . It was like I wanted to continue on with my assignment but wanted to spare this one. Somehow, callin' in the Director on a blind bird kid just didn't seem fair. It didn't feel _right_. I'd had no qualms about this mission until I realized he was blind.

_No,_ I told myself. _You've gotta keep on. This isn't about them, anyway. It's about _you_ and _your_ survival, not theirs! Who cares if he's blind?!_

Er . . . well . . . _I_ cared. Or so I thought. At least, I figured his life sucked enough and it didn't need to be made worse by lil' ol' bird kid-assassinatin' me. But I was gonna go through with this as long as there were no more hitches. One's an anomaly and two's a trend, after all. I looked up and found the dark-haired kid looking at me again, eyes narrowed a bit. And I knew, right away, that he did _not_ like me. Or Derek. And he didn't trust us; I could tell that much. The look on his face was suspicion; that much was clear. Something about me or something I'd done had him mistrusting me. Did I look too prim and proper for a kid who'd just "escaped" from the school and then flown six hours? I pretended not to notice when he went back to his laptop (I'm never getting over that . . . Fugitives owning a laptop? Please), instead smoothing a hand over my wings and returning them to a more relaxed posture so that they were pretty much hanging loosely against my back. I glanced over and watched a moment as Iggy ran his hands over Derek, touching his hair and his wings. I noted that one of them twitched a bit, and the next thing I knew, I was getting an overload of a sight I never would've expected. There, barely hidden by the flight feathers, was horribly scarred skin and feathers that were so raked it was horrible. I'd known he had scars, but I'd never . . . I'd never thought they were _that_ bad . . . My eyes went wide, as did Max's, and Angel's jaw dropped a bit with shock. I couldn't help but wince. Sure, I hadn't known Derek for more than a couple days, but I couldn't _not_ feel sorry for him. I knew I certainly didn't have any scars that bad. I was kept on a pretty tight leash, as it were; no one was allowed to harm me, let me get hurt, or anything else that might compromise my "value." Boy, did it _ever_ suck to be considered little more than merchandise. I swallowed, trying to push out the mental images of where Derek could've gotten those scars (I had a pretty good idea), and Nudge's eyes and mouth went equally wide even though she managed not to say anything, mercifully.

Poor Derek, though. He twitched harder when Iggy touched the scars, inspecting them. Max looked so shocked, so sympathetic, that she didn't seem like the tough-cookie leader I'd been sent to kill. And the dark one? He took one look at Derek's scars and grimaced.

"Only one thing makes scars that bad," Max breathed, and Derek nodded, looking at her with almost mournful eyes. Huh. I'd never seen so much as a lick of emotion from him except when he'd said "So are they" to me on the way here to San Diego.

"Erasers," he said softly, confirming what I figured the rest of us had already guessed. "I was in training, and one of them got in close before I could take off. It took me three weeks to heal and another seven months to fly again."

At that, there actually was an "Oh, my word" of something akin to sympathy out of me. I was beginning to scare myself, getting all mushy like that. But I knew how horrible it'd be if I couldn't fly for seven months. Angel slowly crept up beside Derek and took his hand, squeezing it. He squeezed right back, and Iggy clapped him on the shoulder in something like camaraderie. I had a sudden feeling of not belonging, but remember what I said about always being a loner? Precisely. This was still about _my_ survival. Anyway, Nudge's eyes got a bit wider, and I almost, _almost_ smacked my forehead with my palm.

"ERASERS?!" she gasped. "Oh, you poor thing, that's AWFUL! Just AWFUL! Fang got sliced by Ari once, and he nearly died, but there was this guy with a cell phone who called 9-1-1, so everything was okay."

She took a breath, and I had to struggle against my urge to shout "Don't you _ever_ shut up?!" I guess part of what stopped me was my noticing the dark one roll his shoulders and sigh. He muttered something to the effect of "Nudge, shuddup" under his breath, and I nodded faintly. That one was Fang, then. I noticed another little pile nearby; from what I could tell, it was a tow-headed boy and a little dog, and they both looked asleep. Hey, if those two could sleep through two new arrivals _and_ Nudge's chattering, then they were supermen—er, a superman and a super-dog.

Iggy stepped back from Derek and me, going right back to his spot near Fang and the sleeping beauties, plopping down _exactly_ where he'd been. The next thing I knew, Max was looking straight at me, and she had that "I'm the leader, and I can kick your butt" look again.

"Well, you mind telling us why you and he are here?" she asked. "I'd ask him, but he's talked enough."

Derek grinned faintly and shrugged before wandering over to Fang, quietly looking over his shoulder at the laptop. Oh _no_, I could see where this was going. They'd bond over that stupid thing and become the best of friends—or not. Fang looked up, nodded once at Derek, and went right back to whatever he was doing. Ahh, not one for socializing, eh? I sighed a bit, not really meeting Max's gaze and instead going for the "new kid on the block" look—y'know, a bit nervous, kind of left out, all that jazz. I jammed my hands into my windbreaker pockets and shrugged.

"What can I say?" I said, summoning all my powers of "bird kid escapee." "We broke out. Couldn't take it anymore. What with the dog crates and all the smells—"

"We know," Nudge said, lifting a hand and shaking her head in the universal "Shut up and don't talk about _that_" motion. _Not a bad first go, Del._ "We _totally_ know."

"Yeah . . ." I said, scuffing my foot a bit. I was gonna milk this cow as much as I could. Ho, Bessie. "Heard you guys had gotten free, too. Kind of an inspiration, y'know?"

Max shrugged one shoulder, "eh, no big"-style.

"We had help," she said. "Wasn't all us."

"Nah, we had Jeb to smuggle us out," Iggy said, dragging a small bag of cookies out of a backpack as if he could see them as well as I could. Talk about impressive.

I barely stiffened at the mention of Batchelder, and I noticed Derek did the same. I'd heard of Batchelder; who hadn't? Thing was, I'd been warned against him because of his great attachment to the Flock. And yet . . . there had been times during my training when I'd felt someone watching me, turned, and saw him there. It was almost as if he were secretly watching out for me, trying to take care of me from a distance. And then he had been in charge of Derek . . . Hmm. Things were getting suspicious. And, well, there was still that business of eliminating the Flock and saving myself. Maybe Derek, too, if he came along for the ride. But currently, the only Ride I was after was standing right in front of me.

"Being smuggled out would've been _so_ much easier . . ." I sighed, hunching my shoulders forward a bit.

_Keep it up,_ I told myself when Max actually grinned at me. _You're doin' great, Del. You're on your way to being on their good side._

And yet, even though Max grinned at me, I noticed that Derek was eyeing me strangely, as if he knew what I was up to. I felt my stomach twist into a bit of a knot. He could _not_ know. Not yet. I wasn't sure whose side he was on, anyway. If he were on their side, he'd have to go, too, just because if he didn't, it might cost me my freedom. But if he were on _my_ side, he was okay. Max came over and took me by the shoulder, motioning to the others.

"Well, can't well stop you from joining up," she said. "Like the saying goes, the enemy of my enemy is my friend."

Derek murmured something when I passed within earshot of him: "But what if that enemy _isn't_?" My stomach turned a somersault again. Did he know? _Did he know?!_ Hey, it wasn't like it was a big secret; I was just scared to death of getting ratted out, was all. But I didn't get a chance to think about that because Nudge grabbed my hand and dragged me to a spare spot in their little nest (Ha! Irony, there) of backpacks and the like.

"C'mon, c'mon!" she said exuberantly, awakening both the tow-headed little fella and the dog. "You must be _starving_! Me, I'm _always_ starving . . ."

"Actually, I'm not," I said, shaking my head when she offered me a granola bar. I added my backpack to the pile and sat down, cross-legged. "We grabbed a snack a little while ago."

The next moment, there was a sudden, unexpected little voice at my side. I wheeled around and found _the dog_ there. His little black nose twitched as he looked up at me, sniffing a bit. He was not actually talking . . . Oh, Lord . . .

"Yes, 'snack,' indeed," he said, and I felt like I was about to faint from the shock of a _talking dog_. "Holy crap" moment extraordinaire, folks. "For a bird kid, that _was_ a snack. Hm . . . I smell meat. Lucky thing, you, having a steak . . . and dessert, too."

His nose twitched again as he sniffed at my windbreaker, and I raised an eyebrow. Then he looked around with a knowing air.

"Cheesecake Factory."

As soon as the words left his mouth, and Fido had done his little bit of prophesy, he actually _MOANED IN ENVY_. No lie. You ain't heard nothin' until a little Scottie moans jealously over what you had for dinner! I looked at Nudge, shocked, and she giggled. Derek blinked once, then twice, at the talking pooch, and Max snickered at our expressions of shock. Even Iggy was grinning, and I thought I saw a teensy little look of amusement on Fang's face.

"Del, Derek," Max said, waving to the dog, "meet Total. Picked him up in New York."

"Ah, yes," Iggy said thoughtfully. "_That_ little fiasco where you killed your brother only to have him resurrected from the dead . . ."

At that, Max's face went totally expressionless. Okay, that was a little weird. I had yet to hear about the almighty Maximum Ride having a _brother_ . . . I must've zoned out during the mission briefing. Maybe I'd suddenly developed sleep apnea and had fallen asleep with my eyes open while the Director was giving me my objectives. Nonetheless, I took note of Max's face and filed it away in my mind for future reference. Then, after that bit of filing, I reached over and dared to pat Total. His pink tongue lolled out as his little tail started wagging. He was a normal dog . . . except for his, y'know, language skills.

"Um . . ." I said slowly. "Nice to meet ya."

"Oh, the pleasure is _all_ mine," Total answered. "May I sleep next to you tonight? I'd like to dream of a big, thick, juicy steak . . ."

He sighed dramatically and plopped down next to me. I looked over at Nudge and Angel, and I must've looked seriously weirded out, because they just giggled. Nearby, the tow-headed fella rolled his eyes.

"Oh, please," he sighed. "You're making us all hungry!"

I heard a puff of air from Max that could only mean a silent scoff. She reached over and tousled the kid's hair, and he grinned broadly at her. Then she looked at me.

"Since you've met the rest, meet the Gasman. We call him Gazzy for short."

"May I ask . . . why?" I asked, feeling as if I really did _not_ want to know.

Across the way, Iggy pretended to asphyxiate himself. Nudge began to snicker. My mouth formed the word "Oh" when Gazzy just smiled innocently at me. Derek looked like he might laugh. Instead, he just looked over Fang's shoulder, eyeing the laptop almost longingly. He asked him what he was up to, Fang didn't really reply, and Max told Derek not to worry because Fang was _always_ like that. Then Total trotted over and took a look at the screen, and I had the sudden realization of "He can _read_, too. The dog can _read_!"

"_Oh_," Total said. "Working at the blog again. Chronicling all our grand adventures."

B—blog? Fang had a _blog_? Great. Now I _knew_ my name was gonna pop up on there. I _almost_ smacked my forehead with my palm. But instead, I decided to keep on with my "new kid on the block" look, so I widened my eyes and looked straight at Fang.

"You have a _blog_?!" I asked.

He nodded, and I thought he almost grinned proudly at me. I raised both eyebrows in mild surprise, and Nudge giggled, patting my arm.

"Hey, it isn't _so_ weird," she said. "Lots of people carry laptops around and have blogs. But his is just the coolest thing! Everywhere we are, if it's safe, he pulls it out and posts. It's _awesome_. Not to mention we get instant access to Google . . ."

_And instant access to _me_,_ I thought from within the safety of my mental shield.

Then again, would they really have access to me? All my files were double- and triple-encrypted; nobody except the Director and her chosen minions could get in and look at them. But, if you _did_ see them, you'd find everything you ever wanted to know about me (but were afraid to ask). I twirled a shaggy strand of hair around my index finger and made the mistake of glancing at my backpack. The words out of the Bible I'd been given came racing back: _"Thou shall not kill."_ I shoved them out, but they came right back. Boy, was _this_ gonna get hard . . . I sighed and just sort of looked around. Apparently Fang and Derek were already bonding over that laptop; it seemed Derek had earned permission to use it from time to time. Everybody else seemed to gather around the apparently monumental event of Fang sharing his beloved laptop, and I suddenly found myself gazing at Iggy—studying, really. I had no problem watching him because I knew he probably wouldn't notice. And everyone else was occupied with that stupid laptop . . . I'm not sure I was totally sure of what it meant to feel sorry for someone, but I was pretty sure that I felt sorry for _him_. Poor guy, being blind and all. Must've sucked. And the funny thing was that I was playing out my next call to the Director: "Hey, I've got 'em. One thing, though. Can I spare the blind one?" Of course, it was a pity thing, and I could hear the flat-out "NO!" that would come hurtling back at me, so I didn't even ask. I just wanted to get this mission finished as fast as possible so that I could _leave_. I didn't want to be around them, I didn't want to get _too_ close; I just wanted to get inside, get rid of them, and get lost. That was it! I sighed a bit, still looking at Iggy all sideways-like so I wouldn't be _too_ obvious. I was _not_ feeling sorry for him, I told myself. I was just nervous about my big assignment. Nothing else. Of course, Nudge's squeal the next moment ruined _that_.

"Ooh, Del's makin' eyes at Iggyyyyy!"

"Shut up!" I barked. "I was _not_! Lord!"

I frowned and crossed my arms even though I knew I looked like a bullfrog just as Iggy wheeled around _exactly_ to where I was, almost as if he had a set of spare eyes in the back of his head. I glanced up, saw Nudge's playful grin and Derek's raised eyebrows, and went back to my frowning.

"Does it always have to be love?" Angel asked. "Nudge?"

"No kidding," Max mumbled, and then she threw a short glance at Fang, who returned said short glance. _Hellooo_ . . . Hey, I may be half-deaf, but I'm not—well, never mind.

"Nah, I guess not," Nudge admitted, still grinning madly, "but it'd sure be cute!"

"'Cute' is _me_," Total informed her, "_not_ teenage romance."

I muttered an agreement to that and drew my legs up into my chest as everyone seemed to calm down. A moment later, Fang eased up, silently walked over to Max, and bent down to whisper something that I couldn't hear into her ear. Max murmured in the affirmative to whatever he'd said, and I felt my suspicion levels skyrocket. _Time to be super careful,_ my gut was telling me. After a second or two, Fang returned to his spot and stretched out, hands behind his head. Derek was still hunched over the laptop, Angel and Nudge were playing a card game, and Iggy and Gazzy were sharing a handful of cookies. I sighed a bit, watching them all. To say the least, this was about to be . . . well, _challenging_ would be putting it simply. I guess I'd anticipated them to be a little more robotic and a little less human, I dunno. But then again, I'd been through months of the most grueling training on the planet to get me ready for this, and I was conditioned to be unhindered by anything, _including_ sympathy for a blind bird kid. Time to get this started.

Slowly making sure my mental shields were still in place and functioning, I climbed up, walked out to the edge of the roof, and sat down. I let my legs dangle over the edge and spread my wings a bit to keep balance. From where I was standing (er, sitting), I couldn't see any sense in going splat on the first day on assignment. Glancing over my shoulder to make sure no one was watching (they weren't), I reached up and gently tugged at my right ear to activate my comm channel straight to the Director herself. I waited a moment for the gentle shock that meant she was listening. When it came, I rolled my shoulders back and concentrated.

_I've found them,_ I thought matter-of-factly. _Don't send the 'bots yet, though. Wait until I give the word._

_Very well,_ came the reply right back to my brain._ Robots on standby for signal._

I nodded, partly to myself, partly to her, before shutting down the channel. Oh, thank science for implants like that, even if they _did_ give me headaches from time to time. And thank goodness I was considered important enough to get implants like mine. But who was I fooling? I knew how this thing worked. They'd created me just to kill the Flock; as soon as they were out of the picture, I'd wake up to find a bullet in my brain. Lovely mental image, isn't it? But y'see, that's _exactly_ why I'm going to play _everything_ for my benefit. If there's one thing I'm terrified of, it's dying. No way was I gonna go out like that. If I had my way, I wouldn't go out _at all_! I just sat there on the roof's edge, gazing out over the vista of San Diego at night. I had to admit . . . it _was_ beautiful. Sure, I'd never seen a big city in my life, but I figured that all my mental conditioning prevented me from going "Ooh!" and "Aah!" like I might've if I were, say, normal. But still I sat there, just staring at the city lights. After a moment, it seemed as if Total just materialized at my side, because I'd certainly never heard or seen him coming.

"Aren't big cities _gorgeous_?" he asked me, looking up at me with big black eyes.

"I guess so," I replied with a half-shrug, still trying to get over the little "Holy Toledo, I'm conversing with a _dog_" thing. "I never saw one before today."

Total lay down at my side, tongue hanging out a bit. I reached over and patted his head, stroking the soft fur and feeling as if I could really get used to having a dog around. Maybe I could keep him once my job was finished. Then there was a hand on my left arm, and I turned a bit to find Derek easing down beside me. The fact that he was now sitting on my left side posed a problem: if he said anything, I'd have to work hard to hear him. Great.

"Pretty, ain't it?" he asked me. "I've only seen a few pictures, but actually seeing . . . it's somethin'."

I turned and looked at Total, who huffed and trotted off, taking the hint. Whenever Derek wanted to talk to me meant something important because he _never_ wanted to talk to me. I glanced at Derek, hunching my shoulders forward and sighing.

"Yeah . . ." I replied. "I just . . . I never saw pictures. They kept me on such a short leash. You . . . you got more freedom than I did."

Er . . . well . . . I _thought_ he got more freedom than I did. It felt that way, anyway. Sometimes it just sucked so bad to be who I was. Maybe that was why I wanted so desperately to be free of it all, and why I didn't really care who died so long as I _didn't_. I looked over at Derek, who sighed and inched closer to me. I almost scooted away, but I didn't really feel like putting out the energy. My tummy was contentedly full, my eyelids were getting heavy, and if I wasn't careful, I'd fall off the roof from exhaustion.

"Well," he said slowly, "I guess that instead of going straight to the Director, you could've asked for a couple weeks with Batchelder."

I stiffened a bit. Just thinking of how I'd seen Batchelder hanging around, watching me, studying my progress reports, all that stuff, made my skin crawl. I'd always gotten a bit of an "Omigosh, he's a STALKER!" feeling from Batchelder's interest in me, but now it was less of a stalker-like thing and more of my gut again telling me to be careful and not to trust him. But I didn't say anything in response to Derek—not at first, anyway. I lifted a shoulder half-heartedly before letting it limply fall, thinking a bit before turning and looking at him. Y'know, someday I was _really_ gonna have to tell him I was half-deaf.

"I didn't have a choice," I said. "But if I _had_ . . . and I _had_ picked Batchelder . . . maybe I wouldn't have this thing that gives me headaches stuck in my brain. But like I said, I didn't have a choice. I guess, though, even if I _had_ been given the opportunity to pick Batchelder, I still would've ended up with the implant, still would've been chosen for this. The way the story went, they made a whole handful of bird kids like me, and I was the only one the Director really liked, so she handpicked me from the nest, as it were. I could stand to wring her scrawny neck, though . . ."

"Anyone would, I think," Derek sighed. "I don't think you're so alone on that."

He and I went silent for a long time, and I just stared down at the city. It'd seemed as if my problem was my assignment, but the more I thought about it, the more I was sure that wasn't it at all. Instead, I had the sudden, sickening thought of "I wonder when my expiration date is." I remembered with horror and a wave of hot jealousy that the Flock were rumored not to have expirations. I wondered if they didn't, and my logic told me that was the truth; I knew this because I deduced that, if they _did_ have expirations, why would the Director need _me_? You don't need to send an assassin on people who were gonna die soon, anyway. I mean, the three eldest were, like, eighteen—legal adults. If they'd survived _that_ long, then they _couldn't_ have expirations. My fists clenched as I thought back to one day months ago when I first heard my name and the term "expiration date" used in the same sentence. I started to shake, but I wasn't sure if Derek noticed, because I didn't hear him say anything. Then again, he was sitting on my left, so I wouldn't have heard a word. A smoldering combination of anger of hatred for those kids because they were so much luckier than I was surged through me, and I was filled with an even deeper resolve to come out on top, _no matter what._ But then I had a question to ask, and I had to ask it _now_. I steeled myself, taking a deep breath. Sweat was rolling down my neck, and I could practically _feel_ my expiration ticking down. God knew that was my worst fear.

"Derek," I asked, trying to keep my voice calm but hearing it quiver despite those efforts, "do me a favor. Check my neck."

The next thing I felt was my collar being tugged down in back. Then there was a heavy sigh. My heart skipped a beat.

"Del . . ."

My pulse shot sky-high as adrenaline pulsed through my system. _No . . ._ It _wasn't_ . . . And yet Derek's tone of voice . . . Oh _no_ . . . I _knew_ I hadn't been feeling well lately! I _knew_ it! Frightened shivers ran all up and down my spine.

"What?" I demanded. "WHAT?! Dammit, Derek!" _Oh, please, God, don't let it be . . ._ "I KNEW it! It's soon, isn't it? How soon? HOW?!"

A moment later, I heard smothered laughter, and I wheeled around to find Derek shaking his head at me and _grinning_.

"It says, 'This expire is false; go live your life.'"

Part of me was overcome by a cool wave of relief. The other part was just seething, and _that_ part gained the upper hand when I realized that the Flock were watching us. I was so incredibly angry that Derek had pulled that stunt on me! Sure, I was grateful that I wasn't gonna die in point-two seconds, but he had _no_ right to treat me like that! He had _tricked_ me when he'd had no call to! He should've _known_ that the thought of having an expiration date scared me more than anything else on the planet! And, well, then there was the extra twelve eyes glued to us, and that just made me turn red with mortification and rage.

"DEREK, YOU _JERK_!" I screamed, so livid I could've just exploded.

I was so terribly irate that I hauled off and punched him right in the face—jaw, if you want specifics. How _dare_ he! And I didn't even feel one lick of remorse over hitting him; after all, it served him _so_ right. But the next thing I knew, he'd let the momentum of my fist carry him off the skyscraper, where he spread his wings and laughed, proclaiming to all of San Diego the sweetness of freedom. Nudge was giggling and seemingly wanted to go flying, too; Max was grinning her head off. I was glowering. My face went right into a cold, hard scowl, and I clenched my fists and turned my back on the others, going right to the farthest corner of the roof and sitting there so I could fume in peace. I took one glance at the Flock in time to notice that Fang looked over at Max before casting a defensive glare in Derek's direction. Hey, talk about your plot development. But I didn't care. I didn't care about _anything_ at the moment. So I just kept my back turned and my arms crossed.

Eventually, I heard Derek light near the others, still chuckling.

"Sorry," he called to me; I knew he wasn't, "but paranoia on one end merits some crack!"

_Yeah, a crack in your ribs,_ I thought dourly, flexing my fingers. I knew I could put that crack in his bones, too. I had the physical strength even though I didn't look like much.

"At least it wasn't _me_ on the other end," I heard Max say, and then Nudge laughed.

"Oh, yeah!" Nudge agreed. "I mean, she'd have hit you so hard that you'd've gone sailing off into another skyscraper! Probably ended up on the desk of some big-time CEO who'd just _love_ roast bird kid for dinner . . ."

At that, Gazzy and Total voiced their opinions of the revolting nature of that comment, and while I felt inclined to pipe up with an agreement, I didn't. So I just sat there on my perch, still scowling, still furious. I must've sat there for ten, fifteen minutes, before it started getting really quiet behind me. Nudge scampered over and made a cheerful remark that Derek had only been kidding with me before she bade me goodnight and scampered off to join the others. I heard a whole series of nighttime comments:

"Why can't I sleep next to Del? She smells good."

"Because you might fall off the roof, and Angel wouldn't like that."

"No, I wouldn't. C'mere, boy."

"Fang?"

"Mm?"

"Put that freaking laptop _away_."

"Yes, ma'am, Sergeant Max, ma'am."

"Shut up."

"Night, Derek!"

"Night, Nudge."

"Hey, watch where you put your head, Iggy! You nearly crushed our bomb stuff!"

"Oh . . . sorry . . ."

"Can I tell Del g'night?"

"I wouldn't, sweetie; she looks pensive."

"She looks like she's just thinking."

"Same thing, Gaz."

"Oh."

"Look, you guys, even blind mutant freaks need beauty sleep . . ."

I chuckled wryly as it got still behind me, but even then, I didn't turn. Sure, my assignment was to get close to them, be their friend, but I didn't want to get _too_ close. That was why I sat there on the edge of the roof, not even really moving. I sat there, almost like an outcast, rubbing the back of my neck as if doing that would somehow ward off an expiration date. Stupid Director, stupid Itex, stupid everything. I sighed and looked up at the stars that were barely visible for all the blinding city lights. After a moment, I reached up and tugged at my ear again. I felt the gentle shock, and then I took a deep breath, steeling myself before I asked the question that was nagging so badly at me.

_When's my date?_ I asked silently.

There was a long, long silence. It was if she were contemplating whether to tell me or not. My stomach clenched into a nervous knot as I waited, hands clasped between my knees. Then the reply came, silent as a whisper, deadly as a poison.

_Four years._

I inhaled sharply and felt myself reel forward, but I gripped the edge of the roof so I wouldn't fall off. My mind immediately started to spin. In four years, I'd only be twenty-one . . . and then I'd just . . . drop dead somewhere. Maybe if I were _really_ fortunate, I'd get a moment of advance warning so that instead of simply dropping dead, I'd have a chance to crawl off into a hole and die peacefully. But, Lord, the morbidness of that thought . . . It was horrible. I shuddered a bit, still thinking. If I were programmed to die in four years, then in reality, I'd only been programmed to live six before my date kicked in. So, to put that mathematically, I'd already used up _one third_ of my life. I shuddered with horror; this wasn't fair! I mean, I knew I had an expiration, and I was grateful it wasn't set to go off in, say, ten minutes or so, but . . . even though I'd asked, maybe—_maybe_—I hadn't really wanted to know. I sighed heavily, feeling as if the entire world has just been put on my shoulders (think of that Atlas fella, and you've got it), and I scooted back off the edge of the roof, dragged my knees up into my chest, and hugged them. I didn't even say "Thanks" to the Director; I mean, why should I? It wasn't like she'd done me a huge favor by informing me of my expiration date. But then again . . . maybe she had. By telling me I had four years to live (fewer if I either completed or failed my assignment), she filled me with a firmer resolve to live, to fight, to _survive_. All this time, I'd been telling myself that I was _nothing_ like Maximum Ride. Maybe I really was. Maybe . . . just maybe . . . that lust for survival made me more like her than I knew.

I sat there in contemplative silence for a long time before there was a head leaned against my shoulder. I nearly jumped sky-high because I hadn't expected to be touched, but I calmed my nerves and looked over. Nudge, who might've been . . . oh . . . two years younger than me, tops, had her head on my shoulder. She grinned at me before closing her eyes and leaning against me. Then there was another head on my other side, and I looked over to find Gazzy there. He dozed off as soon as his head touched my shoulder, and I wanted so badly to flinch. Nobody _ever_ touched me like that, ever came over and leaned against me, ever welcomed me with open arms. Nobody ever _accepted_ me, but, hell, I was fine with that. And I knew I really shouldn't be getting attached to these guys, especially since they'd have to die by my order, but . . . well . . . it was only for one night, so I wrapped my arms around the kids' shoulders. Then there was a slow shuffling behind me, and the next thing I knew, someone was leaning against my back. I turned and looked over my shoulder and found Iggy there, his back to mine. Huh. I wouldn't have thought that after Nudge's "Ooh, Del's makin' eyes at Iggy!" comment, he'd have anything to do with me. But I murmured a hello and thought I saw a faint smile. Then he reached over, actually patted my shoulder, and stretched out near me. Somehow, I managed to get Nudge and Gazzy lying down instead of sitting up, and I followed suit, lying down on my back and gazing up at the stars. Four years sure wasn't long . . . but I'd gotten to see San Diego. Cool.


	6. 5: Morning

**A/N:** Derek to JaxSolo, Del to me, everybody else to "Jimmy Pats."

* * *

**Chapter Five – Morning **

The next morning, I awoke long before the others were. It was pretty dark out, even with all the city lights that stayed on twenty-four-seven, and I stole a glance at my watch. It read four-thirty, and I rubbed the back of my neck. Sheesh, I had a bad habit of waking up early. Came with the territory, though; all my life, I'd been dragged out of bed for training at the crack of dawn. And now, here I was, sitting on top of a hotel building in San Diego, wide awake and not even yawning. Trouble was, everybody else was still hard asleep. Max was a heap near our backpacks; Nudge was cuddled up next to her; Derek was sprawled out not too far off; Fang had the laptop bag underneath his head like a pillow; Angel had Total in her arms; Gazzy was flopped on his stomach; and Iggy was stretched out rather close to where I'd been. That I found a little suspicious, but I took it as merely being a bit of a miscalculation on his part, what with his blindness and all. Funny thing, though; I'd had a whole night to sleep on my assignment, and I didn't feel much better about callin' in the robots on him. But I had a job to do, and this _was_ about me, after all, so I shoved it and that phrase "Thou shall not kill" right out of my mind. Okay, so I didn't do such a good job with shoving out the phrase. Instead, I wandered over, dragged out my backpack, and dug around until I pulled out that Bible; couldn't hurt to see if there were any good stories, anyway. Then I sat on the edge of the roof and flipped it open to near the middle and found a verse that grabbed my eye: _"But they that wait upon the L__ORD__ shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as __eagles__; they shall run, and not be weary; they shall walk, and not faint."_ That was a nice mental image, made better by the fact that, guess what—_I already had eagles' wings_! Literally! But still, it made me smile a bit (I mean, the part about renewed strength made me feel good), and I looked up at the dark San Diego sky. My shoulders started to itch, so I shook out my wings. Then I had a thought. Why couldn't I take an early-morning flight? I mean, no one (except the really observant early risers of which there were probably, uh, _none_) would see me! I mean, it wasn't like I cared or anything, and it would be _so_ nice to get in some flying time . . . Maybe I could practice my landing skills while no one was looking. It'd be better than trying to improve while everybody was watching and critiquing my awful landings. Trust me, when I land, I skid in, screaming, "CLEAR THE RUNWAY!"

Before I knew it, my wings were fully extended and I was pushing off from the hotel roof with strong, powerful down strokes. Wind rushed through my feathers as I soared up, up, up, _up_ . . . I was totally in love with the sensation of flying; I guess it was like getting high—only literally and without drug abuse. Eventually, I turned and cast a glance down; the Flock and Derek were about a mile or two below me, but even at that distance, they came into perfect focus as soon as I looked at them. Ahh, the joys of bird eyesight. What was even more fun was looking down at the city streets even farther below. From where I was, the cars that were out and about already were no bigger than jellybeans, but I saw them with such clarity that I nearly went "HA! Take _that_, optometrists!" Instead, I tested my vision on all sorts of things before a breeze caught me and lifted me higher. At that point, I spread my wings as far as they would go, practicing various flight maneuvers. I dipped, swooped, soared, dived . . . I even got some practice with the ever-tricky thing of manipulating one's alula for a little extra maneuverability. Then again, you all probably don't have that problem. Anyway, that was when I realized I'd been doing my landings all wrong. Huh. I'd have to try that sometime.

I swooped in lazy circles above San Diego for a long time, maybe an hour, maybe two, before the sun started to come up. I watched the sunrise, surprising myself by letting my mouth hang open with awe. I guessed I'd just been so far removed from "civilization" for so long that I'd never gotten a chance to experience a sunrise. Listen, folks—don't take little things like sunrises for granted. Take my word for that. Anyway, I was feeling adventurous, so I tucked my wings in for a dive back down to the roof. It was like being a meteoroid streaking through the atmosphere as I rocketed down, but just before I smacked into the roof, I snapped my wings back out, flexed the ol' alula on each wing, and I came to a rather pleasant landing. For once, I wasn't skidding to a halt just before I went splat; this time, I came to a graceful stop with plenty of room to spare. _Never_ underestimate the maneuverability of your wing feathers, folks. Never. I silently congratulated myself as I surveyed the Flock; they were all still sleeping. Well, fine by me. I settled back down on the edge of the roof, but after a moment, I heard something moving behind me. I turned a bit, and as I did, my windbreaker rustled; I looked up in time to see Iggy's head snap around to my _exact_ location. He smiled a little bit, still seeming slightly sleepy, as he rubbed a hand through his hair.

"Mornin'," he said. I nodded.

"Mornin'. Sleep okay?"

What? I had no idea what to ask! They didn't offer etiquette classes back at the School, y'know. It's not like I was raised by Martha Stewart. I glanced over at Gazzy, who was still flopped out on his stomach with his jacket tugged over his head. He was twitching a bit, obviously dreaming. I looked back at Iggy, who shrugged.

"Fine as could be said," he said. "You?"

"Guess so," I replied. "I guess I could be sleeping in worse places." _Like . . . a garbage dumpster?_ "At least up here it's . . . safe. Or it feels that way."

"If it does, it's because it usually _is_, you know. Been on the run long enough to know."

_And yet you can't tell I'm not really on your side. You poor, blind kid._

"Yeah . . ." I said, turning and looking out at the city. Iggy must've followed my voice, because the next thing I knew, he was sitting right beside me. Dang, he was really good at getting where he needed to go. "I just . . . I'm glad to be away from _there_."

He nodded understandingly, and I surprised myself by realizing that my statement was a true fact. More than one of my "nest mates" from years back, back when my now-gorgeous golden wings were little more than brown tufts of down on my shoulders, didn't survive the first few months of their lives because something had gone wrong while the scientists were doing all their fancy-schmancy DNA grafting. Those little ones who were deemed "failures" were terminated pretty quickly. The ones that survived . . . Well, they grew up, they were considered inferior to me, and I fought them as part of my training. I _killed_ them. And I did a helluva good job, too. I sighed a bit, thinking back, as Iggy shifted just a hair closer to me. I nearly scooted away but didn't feel like wasting the energy. Besides . . . I was supposed to be the Flock's friend, right?

"They were the ones who made me blind," he said softly, and I nearly fell off the roof with shock. "Just . . . thought you'd want to know."

Well . . . er . . . um . . . I _did_. I just didn't think it'd be right to ask "Hey, how come you're blind?" right off the bat. But now hearing that _Itex_ was the reason behind his blindness . . . that was a surprise and a half. Had they done it on purpose? Was it just an accident? Maybe it was another experiment gone way, way wrong. I figured I'd ask once they all trusted me a little more. I mean, I'm not . . . _y'know_ . . . and I could tell that even though she'd let me in, Max didn't fully trust me. Neither did Fang, for that matter. Or, heck—I could just ask the Director herself about Iggy. Yeah, I could hear it now: "Look, Madam Evil, how come this one's blind? He said _you_ folks did it. Start 'splainin'!" I hadn't meant to, but I actually wheeled around, eyes wide with astonishment at Iggy's little ("little," my tail feather—of which I have none, let the record show) revelation.

"They . . ." I managed. "I'm sorry . . ."

"I've gotten used to it," he said with a shrug. "Gets frustrating sometimes . . . but I manage. Always have, always will."

"Do you ever . . . miss it?" I asked, wondering what the heck was wrong with me, getting all caring. "Like right now: the city's all . . . glowing. It's almost morning, still sort of dark, so all the lights show up real well . . . It's like . . . a city made of lots of little angel halos."

I stopped myself before I said more, mentally giving myself a smack on the hand. _Knock it off, Del!_ I mean, who was I to go getting all sentimental? I was trained—_bred_—to be practically emotionless. Who was I to start caring whether or not he was blind, huh? Oh, _right_—ninety-seven percent _genuine_ human teenager. Sarcasm much.

"I _always_ miss it," Iggy replied, shifting a bit more and sighing, "because I remember being able to, and . . ." He trailed off, sighing with a hint—no, an actual tone—of exasperation. Wow. He really hated the lot dealt to him. "I don't like having to depend on the others to tell me what's going on. I hate it, especially when it digs in."

For the life of me, I couldn't figure out what was wrong with me because I reached over and actually _patted his hand_. What's more, I didn't pull my hand back afterward. He gripped it and gave it a hard squeeze, and I squeezed back. Okay, okay, now I _knew_ I was losing it. Do we need to review my assignment _again_? I thought not. But I knew I had to be careful before I got in over my head. I was still Project Delilah, still the greatest human-avian hybrid ever bred, still the assassin I'd been designed to be. And yet, I sighed thinly and glanced slightly skyward, thinking "Screw you, Director" to myself. I mean, I wasn't gonna fool myself. The woman's the rhymes-with-witch to beat all rhymes-with-witches. She isn't a nice person to choose to anger, lemme tell ya. Um, let's rewrite that sentence, this time striking "to choose to anger, lemme tell ya." That's better—and it's accurate, too.

But Iggy and I just sat there on the edge of the roof, my hand clutched in his; I didn't try to pull it back because I felt like he really needed a hand to squeeze for a while. Figured I might as well be nice to him before I gave the kill order. Nevertheless . . . I swallowed hard. Something was nagging at me, telling me this wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that he was blind because of the very people I was working for, and it wasn't fair that I was gonna die in four years, either. I took a deep breath as a question bubbled up inside me, and with my other hand, I reached up and tugged at my ear. Then . . . when the shock came . . . I did the unthinkable and asked if I could have permission to spare Iggy. I knew she was listening; the shock had come through. And yet . . . only silence answered me. But it wasn't _good_ silence. It was angry, foreboding silence. Okay, time to tread carefully, then. I shut the blasted implant down for the moment, rolling my eyes. Stupid thing gave me a headache every time I used it, anyway. Then I found my gazed latched onto Iggy, watching him even though I knew he'd never be able to see me. Me oh my, but he was so much cuter up close . . . Another mental smack on the hand for me! I looked at him for a moment and almost felt myself move a little closer, but then . . .

"HEY, EVERYBODY! DEL AND IG ARE _KISSING_!"

My face turned beet red as I wheeled around to find Nudge beaming innocently at me, and Iggy scooted away from me—and I mean _away_. He was over by the backpack heap before I knew what'd happened. I glared hard at Nudge, but then there was a sleepy voice coming to my defense.

"Aw, Nudge," Gazzy groaned as he struggled up but flopped down again. "I bet they are _not_."

"_Thank_ you!" I sighed. My gosh, that girl was impossible.

There were various sounds indicating half-hearted attempts at awakening. Derek groaned loudly, and Max tried to push herself up.

"Nudge, it is _too_ early for you to be squealing like that . . ." she grumbled.

"Sorry . . ." came the angelic reply, but I knew that she most certainly was _not_.

I swear, Nudge must've been a ball of eternal energy, because she was sitting up, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, and the rest of us were not. Gazzy moaned pitifully as he pulled his jacket back over his head, and there was just an annoyed, sleepy grunt from Fang, he of the laptop. Slowly, everybody else was coming around. Angel looked drowsy as her big blue eyes blinked open, but she still kept a firm hold on Total. I turned and looked at them all from my perch.

"Time to face another day . . ." Derek muttered.

"Took the words outta my mouth, Derek," came Max's reply

Both my eyebrows shot up at that. That was the first time I'd heard her use his name . . . unless something had happened between them while I was asleep. Maybe things weren't quite as boring as I'd thought. I clambered up and headed over to the little group, settling myself near Derek so I could study him and Max. I looked back and forth between them a bit . . . Oh, there was absolutely no freakin' way . . . But then I saw the way Fang's back went rigid. Ooh, was somebody jealous? I didn't say anything, though; I just kept my observations and my opinions to myself, checking my mental shields to make sure they were up. Nearby, Total stretched out his front paws, yawning and shaking a bit.

"I dreamed I was in a huge field—maybe fifty acres," he said, "chasing a rabbit. I got to have hasenpfeffer . . ."

He sighed wistfully as he trotted over to me and plopped down at my side. I reached over and petted him, ever so cautiously. I still didn't trust a dog whose linguistic skills rivaled, maybe topped, my own. That was just _too_ weird. But he seemed grateful for the extra affection, and when he looked up at me, I could've sworn he _smiled_. Max groaned in disbelief, shaking her head at Total. I chuckled faintly before a tingling across my skin made me look up. Angel's gaze was fixed on me, just like it'd been last night. It was incredibly disconcerting, and a shiver ran through my whole body. I've found that I usually get those "bad feelings" when something is about to go terribly, terribly _wrong_. But I tried to ignore her even though her stare was so steady, so firm. Derek sat not too far from me, staring listlessly ahead until his stomach roared like a freight train. Then he clamped a hand over it, and a flush of crimson rose in his cheek as seven pairs of eyes (including Total but not Iggy, even though his head turned in Derek's direction) latched onto Derek.

"Dude," Iggy said, fighting down a laugh. "I could hear _that_ all the way over _here_."

"Sorry," Derek mumbled. "My brain says I'm not . . . my gut says I am."

I smirked a little bit, trying to pretend as if Angel's continued staring wasn't bothering me. Truth be told, it _was_. I could feel my mental shields being pressed against; she was trying to get past them, trying to get inside, trying to see who I really was. I only focused a little more mental power on keeping those shields up; no way was she going to get in and see more than the blank expanse I had laid out for her. Nudge came and sat cross-legged between Fang and Iggy, the former of which was still trying to wake up and the latter of which was digging around in his knapsack as if he were trying to find something.

"Oh, good," she sighed. "At least _somebody_ else is hungry . . . I thought I was gonna faint! And, Derek, you guys had Cheesecake Factory last night? Oh, that'd be _awesome_ for breakfast—"

There was immediate silence and a muffled "Mmph!" as Fang's hand shot up and clamped right over Nudge's mouth. I tell you what, I wanted to thank that boy. Seriously. Nudge was quiet as long as Fang's hand was over her mouth, which was about as long as it took for him to finally push himself up and look halfway awake. Total complained that there needed to be more German restaurants in San Diego (for the hasenpfeffer), and Angel was _still_ staring at me. Fang finally let Nudge go so he could brush a hand through his shaggy black hair before dragging out the laptop. I swear, he must _never_ let the battery get a break. Unfortunately, Nudge didn't stay quiet as I would've liked. Instead, she was telling Fang that all his life's problems stemmed from a cheesecake deficiency. He was ignoring her; smart lad. I scooted over to Max and jabbed a thumb at the ever-chatty Nudge.

"She's . . . loquacious," I said, and Max chuckled wryly, nodding.

Nudge must've heard me, because she practically skidded to a halt, turning around and leveling me with an accusative glare.

"I'm _what_?!"

_Sigh._ Didn't kids read dictionaries anymore?

"Loquacious," I explained. "Y'know . . . talkative?"

Silence.

"Right. I knew that."

Next to me, Max snickered and clapped me on the shoulder. I turned and looked at her, having something of a _déjà vu_ moment. I could've sworn that I'd either already completed this mission or had dreamed of it a long time ago in training.

"Always has been, always will be," she said in reply to my "loquacious" comment. "It's the Nudge Channel: all Nudge, all the time."

I smiled a bit before I felt what seemed like the makings of a nasty migraine. Then I realized—it was the Director calling _me_ for a change. I sighed thinly, listening as she reminded me—_again_—to keep my mind on my assignment. I shot back an affirmative and frowned internally. I didn't know what her problem was; I mean, last I'd checked, she'd waited four years for these kids to die. A few more days wouldn't kill her, however much I'd like them to. And this was such a simple assignment that it really wouldn't take that long, anyway. I'd just have to travel with them a spell, and when I was good and ready, call in the 'bots. _Extremely_ simple. Of course, it would get a little harder and a bit more challenging once I added my own survival to the mix. Nobody said we bird kids are dirt stupid; I already knew that once my job was over, so was my existence. But it would be even simpler if Angel would just quit staring at me . . . As if by magic, coincidence, whatever, Angel stopped staring in that instant. Derek shrugged, looking over at Nudge.

"Can't promise Cheesecake Factory," he said, "but it's possible that some other downtown restaurant's bound to have breakfast . . ."

"Oh, downtown San Diego," Iggy swooned, and I seriously wanted to punch him for what he said next. "Girls, girls, and—"

"Shut up, you blind flying sexist pig!" Max growled.

I guess I wasn't the only one who wanted to punch him. But he just grinned innocently, and my own grin was . . . strained, at least. I didn't know what the heck was wrong with me, but his swooning over the prospect of girls put a weird kink in my gut. Nudge clambered to her feet and started prancing around the roof about like a fashion model, her tawny wings fluttering in the early morning breeze.

"But none of _those_ girls have wings, Ig," she reminded him, giving us all a grand demonstration of what a winged supermodel would look like. "_And_, even if they did, their wings wouldn't be as beautiful as Del's."

Oh, so she wasn't going to let that go, huh? Sometimes it felt as if my wings had minds of their own, because they twitched faintly at that praise. Maybe it was my own ego purring from having been stroked. But the admiration in Nudge's voice put a second weird kink in my stomach, and I looked away, pretending that something had caught my eye.

_Tough it up, Del,_ I reminded myself. _You were not born to be bothered with sentiments!_

That was true. I hadn't been born—or hatched, whatever you like—to be sentimental. I was locked in an emotionless shell, and personally, I wanted to _stay_ there. That's why these kinks, paired with the throbbing in my head from the Director's call, made me feel as if I might not be able to keep my breakfast down if and when we ate. This was getting so hard, though, and I hadn't even called for backup yet . . . I sighed a bit, noticing out of the corner of my eye when Max chuckled at Nudge and grabbed her into a hug that seemed either mom-like or big sisterly. It reminded me that nobody had or ever would hug me like that, and I waited for the knot in my gut, but none ever came. There was just a little twinge that I barely felt and a moment in which a little voice inside me wondered why I couldn't be like Max before another little voice silenced it with "Because you're _better_ than she is."

_Sorry, first little voice,_ I thought, _but I'm going with that second motion._

I turned my gaze back to the others just as Max looked over at me and Derek, surveying us.

"All right, wonder kids," she said, "take us to breakfast; but remember, it's on you."

Fang voiced his own assent for breakfast as he tucked the laptop away, and I stood, shouldered my backpack, and walked to the edge of the roof. Aw, man, it would be _hilarious_ if I were to just drop off the edge of the roof and vanish, scaring the pants off everybody who saw me and thought I was committing suicide before snapping out my wings and soaring toward the sun. Sounded like something that would make a good scene in a movie. But I just stood there, staring down at the city. Cars raced along like little bugs, their drivers more than likely totally oblivious to everything around them.

"Y'know," I said thoughtfully, "I sure wish I could go flying right now. It'd freak the crap outta everybody."

Never mind the fact that I'd already been flying once that day. Total trotted up alongside me and sighed.

"So do I . . ."

"If you tried, Total," Max said, almost exasperatedly, as if she'd heard that wish from Total before, "you'd die, and I wouldn't save you."

Okay, now, even I had to admit that was a bit cruel, and I was gonna kill these kids! Angel gasped in horror, and Total bounded to her protective embrace, licking her face.

"Max, you _wouldn't_!" she exclaimed, hugging her precious dog close.

"Yes, I _would_."

_Oookay_, somebody didn't like the dog . . . I shoved my hands in my windbreaker's pockets, and the next second, there was a flash of motion next to me. I wheeled around to see Derek taking off into the breeze, cruising off toward downtown before doubling back. He made several laps like that, evidently waiting for the rest of us to get a move on, so while the Flock were grabbing their backpacks, I jumped off the roof, spreading my wings so that the sun would glint off them. I swear, there must be something metallic in the dye they used to color them, because every time I fly, it's like I'm glittering. I chased down Derek, eventually coming to his side. I figured that since he'd played that awful expiration trick on me, he deserved to know when my _real_ one was. I cruised up alongside him and found that his eyes were closed, and there was this look of joy on his face. He really _did_ like flying.

"Can I say somethin'?" I asked, almost a bit hesitantly, which I found to be _very_ out of character for me.

"Fire away."

"Uh, okay . . ." Great; now where would I start?! Better make it an apology, I figured. "Look, about last night, sorry I hit you. It was just . . . I figure you oughtta be told this once and only once. I'm not scared of anything _except_ my own expiration date. I _hate_ the thought of dying. That's _why_ I hit you. Now . . . um . . . I talked to the Director last night."

Here I paused, as if waiting for him to react. He didn't, though he did crack one eye open at me. I took a breath and continued on.

"I've got four years."

That said, I was so overwhelmed by the horribleness of that thought that I wheeled around and headed back to the others, where I started to make a few lazy circles. The whole time, I couldn't help but watch the Flock, and a flame of hatred rose in me. I hated them because they had something I didn't have. They had a _life_. Maybe by taking that from them, I'd make myself better to my own eyes. I didn't want them to have more than I did because I still considered myself, the Mark Two, to be superior to them, the Mark Ones. I hated them all—yes, even Iggy, to whom I had been planning to show mercy. Part of me wondered if this had been the Director's plan all along, to make me hate them so that I would become little more than an animal—little more than an Eraser. I didn't care. They had a life; I didn't. They had Batchelder and therefore someone who cared about them; I didn't. And I wondered . . . what would my life had been like if _I_ had been born Maximum Ride? What if _she_ had been born Project Delilah instead of me? Would I have killed her before she got a chance to kill me, to take away everything I had? I didn't know. I could barely think straight because of my falling blood sugar levels, and I swooped listlessly before there was a hand on my left shoulder. I wheeled around, fists raised in case it was an attacker, but . . . it was Derek. He seemed a little surprised that I should put my fists up, but then again, he also didn't know that I was deaf. _That_ was why I had my fists ready: I hadn't heard him coming.

"Del," he said softly, almost gently, "no matter what she says, why can't you _not_ trust her for once?"

I shrugged; I didn't want to think about that. Instead, I swooped down in front of an office building with a lot of windows and scared the telephone right out of the hand of some lady at a desk. I allowed myself a dry laugh before rising back to meet Derek, who was waiting for my answer. Lord, that boy was _pesky_.

"I dunno," I replied finally, sarcasm dripping heavily from every word. "Kind of a habit, y'know? Like it's been programmed into me. Or . . . maybe I've been brainwashed. Ooh, that sounds like somethin' outta science fiction. Why, who am I to talk? I've got freaking _WINGS_!"

Derek laughed sarcastically as I turned away, and Angel breezed between us, pure white wings flapping daintily. She looked at him with her big blue eyes, then at me, but I ignored the faint prodding I felt in my mind that was her asking to come in. Derek waved to the others, and soon, all eight of us were airborne, and Derek was leading us downtown to a diner we'd passed yesterday. We flew high enough that nosy people couldn't see us but low enough to be comfortable. I sighed, listening to Nudge mention her starvation for the umpteenth time. Max was taking it all in stride, being that perfect little leader. That ember of hatred flared up as my brows furrowed, but then my gaze fell on Iggy, and it cooled, if only faintly. There was just something about him that put all these questions in my mind, that made me ask if I were really the only person that mattered. But I stopped myself before I could go any further with that line of thought, instead looking up at the sky. If the order had come through that instant to kill them, no hesitation, I wondered if I would be able to. I steeled myself, figuratively shoving a few ice cubes into my heart so I'd start pumping ice water through my body.

_You couldn't have picked someone _else I nevertheless thought silently, purposefully _not_ having my little communicator turned on. _Maybe . . . I dunno . . . someone who's not human enough to have conflicting thoughts and emotions._

Frankly, I didn't know what was wrong with me. I was born, programmed, conditioned to be emotionless, and yet here I was tottering on the verge of mercy. Nudge and Gazzy went cartwheeling through the air, and Derek joined them in a lazy loop-de-loop. I just watched languidly, hardly processing any thoughts, much less feeling one-hundred-percent. Maybe I was coming down with, I dunno, bird flu. It'd be fitting!

After a few minutes, Derek tucked in his wings and dove toward the street, and he landed smoothly shortly after. Max landed two seconds after him, and then we all managed to get down there. I landed after a steely-faced Fang, and I made a mental note to avoid him that day at _all_ costs. I didn't want to get my neck snapped before I got a chance at the freedom I'd dreamed of. Nudge came up alongside me as Iggy, holding Total, glided down, Angel beside him.

"Thank goodness for food," Nudge said, "because I'm—"

"I know," I said. "You're starving."

"Yep!" she giggled before scampering off. I sighed. She was too much.

Derek led us a short way up the street, where we found a cute little diner already open and hopping. We went in, grabbed a table, and started passing menus around. Getting Total in had been no problem; we simply said he was a seeing-eye dog. And, trust me, that one wasn't my idea; Max claimed it was a tried-and-true lie.

We hadn't been in that diner for five minutes before the smells of breakfast foods started wafting out of the kitchen, driving us all nuts. Max had her eye on a mozzarella omelet, and Nudge and Gazzy were longingly looking at the pancake section on the menu. And me? Well, pancakes sounded all right. I wasn't really hungry; hadn't been since the Director called and gave me a headache, since I realized I was learning to hate these kids. I looked up.

"Looks like we've got three pancake orders over here," I said, motioning to me, Gazzy, and Nudge. Derek nodded.

"Four," Fang added, setting his menu to the side. "I want mine with bacon."

"Ooh, bacon . . ." That thought seemed to go over well with Gazzy. "Max, can I get bacon, too?"

Okay, so it went over well with Gazzy, but that was it. Max eyed him warily, I sighed and looked heavenward, and Iggy was off on another self-asphyxiation kick. All he earned for that, though, was a smack upside the head from Max, but it really didn't seem as if it bothered him. As if you can't guess, Gazzy did _not_ get bacon even though I knew the kid wanted some. So I, in a really weird turn of events, decided to order bacon and slip him a piece.

After about ten minutes, a waitress came and took our orders, and after another wait, our food arrived. It was practically pancakes all around, with the exception of Max's omelet. Derek outdid us all and got not only chocolate chip pancakes but also an omelet. Angel had strawberries on hers, Fang and I got our bacon, and the rest of the pancake orders were plain with maple syrup. And yeah, I ate. Because it was _good_. And I _was_ hungry—hungrier than I'd thought, anyway. And nobody questioned the copious amount of food we'd ordered. In between bites of syrup-saturated pancakes, I stole momentary glances at Iggy. Maybe I was doing it because I still thought he was cute (heaven knows how I, an extremely sheltered little bird kid, had any idea of the definition of "cute"). Or maybe I was doing it because each time I did, my smoldering anger cooled a bit. Or maybe I just found a little entertainment in watching him wolf down his breakfast. The thing was, I looked up at him once and met Derek's gaze instead. I'm no mind reader, but trust me when I say it felt as if he were silently hoping to see me come out of my emotionless little shell. That did it; I scampered right back inside the safety of my shell and didn't look at Iggy one more time during breakfast. In fact, I started eating more slowly; there was something inside me that I couldn't explain, and it was making me want to get away from these kids _immediately_, whatever it was. Nervousness? Or maybe guilt? I didn't know. But I _did_ know that I was taking my sweet time to the effect of Nudge actually leaning over and telling me that, if I were to have leftovers, to make _sure_ to tell her first. I agreed, though it was half-heartedly, and glanced up in time to see Derek shove his empty omelet plate off to the side and attack his pancakes with such gusto that I stopped and stared.

"You'd think he likes chocolate," Max marveled.

"Uh, _duh_?" Derek replied, mouth full. "Jeb snuck some in from time to time."

I froze mid-bite at the mention of Batchelder. I still got that stalker-ish feeling whenever his name came up in conversation. Perhaps I didn't need to feel like that; perhaps he was always trying to look out for me. But I felt left out again; Derek fit in with these kids so much better than I did because I . . . just . . . I didn't. Nobody ever treated me to chocolate or ever gave me hugs and praised me. If I did well after a morning of training, I got to crash in front of the TV for a half hour while I got my breath back. That was my reward. And to some kids, that'd be an awesome reward. To me, it was lousy. I would've preferred chocolate! I just sat there quietly, not really listening as Nudge started off on a tirade about the wonderful, kind nature of Jeb Batchelder. Instead, I was thinking about last night and how Derek and I had talked about what might've happened if I'd gotten a choice and if I'd picked Batchelder. He was a pretty okay guy, from what I'd seen. He treated his students okay—at least, he didn't treat them like crap. I'd been kicked around by some heartless trainers in my time; I guess that's where I picked up this fierce desire to survive. I sighed a bit, turning my attention back to my pancakes. I was only about a quarter of the way through the stack, and the others had put me to shame: Fang and Gazzy were halfway finished, and Nudge was cleaning up the last of her syrup with her finger. I was about to take another bite when my already present headache was suddenly worsened by a stronger-than-usual zap from my implant. Pain shot across my forehead as I laid my fork down, sighed, and rubbed my temple.

_Do you have to talk _now I asked, and the response I got was none too kind.

_You are delaying for time, Delilah,_ came the Director's sharp retort. _You will get them out of San Diego _now_ and be finished with them for _good

The woman was pushy, I'll give you that. I sighed again and rubbed my forehead, trying to make the headache go away. Now I was beginning to feel sick to my stomach. My day was _not_ going well. Immediately, everybody looked concernedly at me; they knew I hadn't eaten enough to keep a bird kid going. Gazzy asked me if I were all right, and I just murmured that I really needed to be excused. I got up from the table, trying to look as if everything were all right even though I felt as if I might see my breakfast again sooner than I'd like. I asked directions to the restroom from the first waitress I met and headed off in that direction. It was a single-person restroom, so I went in and locked the door, and as soon as I was alone, I pounded a fist into the wall, glaring up at the ceiling.

"Dammit, Director!" I barked, this time out loud. "Does it have to be when I'm _eating_?!"

_Whether or not it is convenient for you does not matter, Delilah,_ came the irritated reply in my head. _This is not about _you_; it is about erasing the last of the Mark One avians. That is your duty, yours and Derek's, whether his allegiance is to Batchelder or the company._

"Frack the company," I wanted to say but didn't. Instead, I sighed and pounded my other hand into the wall, still angry that she'd made me nearly hurl chunks.

"But calling me up when I'm _eating_ is murder on the intestines, woman!" I hissed. "Lemme ask you somethin', though, and you'd _better_ be honest. What happens when they're gone and my job is done, huh? What happens to ME? And NO LYING!"

Only dead silence answered me—dead, _angry_ silence. Then the implant clicked off, jolting me with one last minor shock before all the pain dissipated. I sighed and splashed cold water on my face, and as I was drying it off, there came a rap at the restroom door.

"C'mon, Del; you'd better hurry it up!" I rolled my eyes; it was Max. "Even others of the same genetic disorder gotta pee!"

I swore lightly under my breath, cursed the Director and my implant up one wall and down the other as I got my brain back to its normal functioning. Then I took a breath and shoved the door open.

"Sorry," I said, stepping out into the corridor as Max zipped inside. "All yours."

She shrugged a bit in another of her "eh, no big" moments.

"Well, guess everybody's gotta have some time to primp up, huh?"

Then she gave me a little wink and shut the door. I sighed and headed back to the table, muttering "Primp up, my foot" under my breath. As soon as I returned to my seat, Nudge started bombarding me with the ever-popular question of "Are you okay?!" I assured them all that, yes, I was fine and that it was nothing. Then I noticed that my pancakes had remained mercifully untouched. Thank God! I went after them with slightly more gusto than before, concocting all sorts of comforting mental images of the Director getting electrocuted, or run over by an eighteen-wheeler, or falling off the edge of the Grand Canyon. And yet . . . I couldn't help but notice that Derek was watching me carefully, as if he'd taken note of my edginess. Well, that was fine. Let him take note of it. It wasn't _my_ fault I wanted to take the long route to save my own skin—okay, so it was, but _whatever_!

I polished off my pancakes a minute or two later, having shared some of my bacon with Gazzy (and even some with Total) now that Max wasn't there to tell me not to. But let's face it: I probably wouldn't have listened to her even if she _were_ there. I sat back, hands folded over my middle, and I caught (not _stole_, mind) a glance at Iggy. There was a strange and unfamiliar twinge in my chest; it was kind of like the one I'd gotten when I'd first thought about asking Madam Scary if I could spare him. I quickly glanced heavenward, silently asking God to _please_ level the Director with a heart attack. Then again, do people with hearts of steel get attacked by them?

Max returned a minute or two later, and as she settled back at the table, the waitress dropped back by to take our plates and refill our juice glasses. As soon as she was gone, Derek posed a handy dandy little question.

"What's our next destination?"

"No clue yet," Max replied. "I'd like to stay on the coast, though—"

"San Francisco?" Angel asked, looking hopeful. "Can we go to San Francisco?"

Angel should _not_ have suggested that because it got Iggy started up again.

"Golden Gate Bridge and Cali brunettes . . ."

Max promptly told him to shut up, and I chuckled in spite of myself, still not feeling very well. My stomach was fine, so it wasn't that, and my headache was gone. Nudge started talking about all the sights we could see in San Francisco, and Fang was quiet as usual even though it seemed as if his interest had been peaked at the mention of California brunettes. But then he glanced at Derek, his face shut down, and I wanted to ask "Dude, what is your _problem_?!" And then I wished that I were a robot—or at least pumped with enough avian DNA (more than three percent, anyway) to counteract these complicating emotions. I shifted in my seat a little bit.

"So, we finished here?" I asked, watching the waitress come back with our bill.

Max nodded, and I started digging for the card the Director had given me, but Derek beat me to it. Somehow, he came up with two fifty-dollar bills, and he handed them to the waitress with a big grin. Angel squealed delightedly and hugged him, Max stared at the fifties, and it seemed as if the waitress were wondering what the size of her tip would be. She came back with the change, and Derek handed her some of it for a tip, and then we were all up and headed for the door. The Director's warning was gnawing at me, turning me into a nervous wreck, and I just wanted to be airborne and flying toward San Francisco so I could get this mess over with—so I could have a real life. Of course, if I weren't careful, I'd probably end up as wolf bait if they decided to "put me down," but . . . I'd just have to think on that later. Like _way_ later. Like . . . maybe next century. Maybe me an' Ponce de Leon would get together and find that Fountain of Youth so I _could_ think about it next century. Yeah, _right_. I shoved my hands in my pockets as I headed out, murmuring "Thanks" to Derek as I passed him. Then I heard Gazzy cautiously pipe up behind me.

"She's acting really strange . . ."

No. Freaking. _Duh!_ I sighed and almost turned to refute that, but Derek slid easily into the role of my sidekick—the one I don't need because I'm capable, remember?

"She's fine," he assured the twelve-year-old. "In fact, she's always like this, ain't that right, Del?"

I nodded a bit and murmured "Yeah," hoping that would end it. It didn't. I glanced over my shoulder and saw Iggy's eyebrows furrow thoughtfully, and Max looked between him and me. No way . . . No _way_ . . . Seriously, Max! Sheesh!

"Let's talk about this later," she said. Uh, more like _never_, how about? "Let's get on up; we're burnin' daylight!"

We stepped into a side alley and all unfurled our wings, leaping into the air. For the first time in my miserable existence, snapping out my wings didn't feel good. I didn't tilt them to make the sun catch on them. I didn't try any fancy maneuvers. I just zipped up, as high as I could go as fast as I could go. I knew that if I were gonna go through with this assignment, I'd have to get back into that emotionless shell of mine and _stay there_. I wouldn't be able to come out for any reason whatsoever. The others were behind me, and I didn't want to seem like a freak, so I doubled back. But when I reached them, I sank to an altitude several yards lower than theirs. On purpose. To get away. I'd been told to get close, to be friendly, but now I didn't want to get _too_ close or _too_ friendly. And the words from the Bible—_"Thou shall not kill"_—echoed in my brain until I was sick of it. So we just flew quietly, and even Nudge, thankfully, was silent.


	7. 6: Boom

**Derek to JaxSolo, Del to me, everybody else to Jimmy Pats.**

* * *

**Chapter Six – Boom **

We'd been flying for about an hour, still headed for San Francisco, and I was still cruising along at a lower altitude than everyone else because I was still intent on staying as far away from them as I could. Derek was up in the midst of the others, holding Total because Iggy had pushed the little dog off on him. Then again, maybe keeping the dog airborne was something this group just did as a team effort. I could tell that Derek was struggling to keep Total from falling, because we _were_ about twenty-five thousand feet high, anyway. He was already having a rough day, having to hold a dog who will talk to you and will complain if you hold him wrong, but what made it worse was when Fang had a hormone fluctuation or something, because he got _really_ close to Derek, and he had this stone-cold expression on his face. I eased up higher to see what was going on, and I found Derek and Fang warily eyeing each other. Oh, this was _not_ going to go well. I think Angel knew that, too, because she glided up alongside Derek and started reaching for Total. Derek all too willingly foisted the mutt off onto her, and she hugged her precious companion for a minute before sailing off, closer to Max. And Derek and Fang were still watching each other. It seemed to me as if everybody was sliding away from the Testosterone Twins, because the space between them and us widened considerably. Trust me, when two guys end up with _that_ expression on their faces, things are about to explode, so it's better to stay _away_.

"Listen, Derek," I heard Fang say tightly. "The way you've been looking at Max . . . knock it off."

Derek blinked once, then twice, and my eyebrows went up. So _that_ was Tall, Dark, and Silent's problem, eh? He was getting over-defensive on us! I thought I saw a bit of surprise come over Iggy's face; apparently he hadn't thought Fang would go off on a kick like this.

"Whaddaya mean, the way I've been looking at Max?" Derek asked with disbelief. "There's nothing, honest! Lay off, man . . ."

I _did_ notice that Max eased closer to the dramatic duo, and she did _not_ look happy. Fang rolled his eyes; I personally thought that he was reading too much into this. Oh, sure, Derek had glanced a couple times at Max, but I was pretty sure that was because they were both practically raised by Batchelder. Maybe it was some sort of camaraderie or something, I dunno. But I _did_ think that Fang was overreacting even though I had an "Uh oh" moment. Fang's dark eyes narrowed into little slits, and he just _glared_ at Derek.

"Look, I'm not an idiot," he said, "and I'm not _deaf_." I winced at that. "I heard you two talking last night. Can you be any more obvious?"

Nudge banked away from him and glided down to my side, looking at me with eyes that were a bit concerned for Fang, he of the wacky hormones.

"This may not end well," she whispered, and I scoffed a bit.

"Y'think? Just dodge when the blood splatters."

She nodded and zipped underneath me, coming up on my other side and well away from Fang and Derek. Iggy and Gazzy came closer to us, as well, while Max stayed near the boys and Angel hung back a bit from her. Obviously, five out of eight of us wanted to be as far away from Fang and Derek as we could. Derek stared at Fang, nonplussed.

"Fang, dude, seriously," he said. "That wasn't . . . _I_ wasn't . . . I just needed to talk to her, that's all!"

"Fang, he's right!" Max interjected, brows furrowed irritably. "He was just filling me in on the situation with him and Del, what he knows of Itex. Nothing of _that_ kind."

Then . . . it happened. Fang, evidently not wanting to listen to reason, glared _hard_ at Derek for all of two seconds before his fist slammed into Derek's face. I grimaced, Nudge cringed, and Gazzy was describing the situation to Iggy in grand detail—maybe a little _too_ grand. But Derek yelped when the blow came, and his wings stopped flapping, so he dropped several feet in a big hurry. And I had to ask . . . what was Fang's problem, anyway? Was it love and therefore jealousy, just plain possessiveness, or teenage guy hormones that were seriously on the funky side? Or was he stark-raving bonkers? Derek managed to recover enough to start flying again, but he held a hand against his nose, and I wondered if it were broken.

"You IDIOT, Fang!" Max was shouting. "He was giving me _news_, not asking me on a date or kissing me!"

I stared at the three of them, hardly believing what was going on. Was everybody's blood sugar _that_ low already? I mean, we'd just eaten an hour ago. Surely we didn't burn off food _that_ fast.

"Say what you want," Fang grumped, "but I don't care."

He looked as if he were going to hit Derek again, because his fist was pulled back and ready to go. Well, I don't know about you, but I was tired of his weird behavior. So I shot up, dodged his fist when he hit at me instead of Derek, grabbed his arm, and twisted. And, trust me, that was _gentle_ treatment. I could've kicked his butt if I'd had a mind to do so.

"Dude," I said coldly, leveling him with a glare. "Lay off. You're lettin' your guy hormones get the better of ya."

Behind me, Derek was spiraling away, his own fists raised in self-defense. Max came down even with me, looking seriously twirked. She obviously didn't like hormonal men any more than I did, and my day already sucked enough without there being testosterone overloads.

"Fang, he had a letter from Jeb," Max said firmly. "There's someone from Itex out for us. Might not be the biggest news flash in the world, but, hell, I like being alive, don't you?"

When she said that, I froze internally, and my stomach twisted into a million knots. Did she know? Did they _all_ know? Were they all just playing along with me, and how would I know if they were? But I didn't get long to think about that because Fang jerked his hand from my grasp and backed away, seeming _way_ less than defeated.

"Fine," he muttered. "But if he tries anything, I'm getting after him."

Derek's eyes narrowed at Fang, and I wondered if I'd have to go grab _his_ arm.

"Next time," he said, "I won't be so unfortunate as to let you hit me again."

That said, Derek pushed his wings as hard as he dared and zipped up maybe another ten thousand feet. While he went up, I went down, gliding back down to my low altitude. Great. This was going just _fabulously_. For a minute there, we'd actually been close to getting on the Flock's good side. Now Max was running Fang up and down a wall, Fang was scowling and nursing his bruised knuckles, and I felt as if this were a hopeless cause. We were supposed to be friendly with them, not fighting! And I knew that if things continued as they were, then we'd _never_ be in good graces with these kids. With a sudden sinking feeling in my gut, I realized what I'd need to do in order to save the situation. I'd need to activate Plan Martyrdom. I swallowed hard; that was a difficult order to make since _I_ would be the one getting hurt—shot, more than likely. And yet . . . I sighed, looking up at where Max and Fang were both stony-faced; Max was glancing warily up at Derek from time to time, too. I sighed again. Well, here went nothin'. I rolled my shoulders back, calmed my nerves, and called the Director. When the shock came through, I took a deep breath before thinking.

_We're headed for San Francisco. Things aren't going as planned. It's Plan Martyrdom. Repeat, I'm the target for now. Set up an ambush to take place about three hours from now._

She replied with an affirmative before the connection was harshly cut off, and I reeled with the sudden loss of communication. But . . . just like that . . . it was done. Maybe, if those tin cans didn't aim well, I'd just signed my own death warrant. That was a horrible thought, and I swallowed hard, but I knew that this was the way it'd need to be if I were to eventually have things go the way I wanted . . . so I could be free.

It was silent among us for a long time, and Derek was still cruising high above the rest of us. I glanced up occasionally, checking out the situation, and at one point, I noticed that Iggy was slowly drifting down to my level, following verbal directions from Nudge. I reached out and touched his shoulder when he came close to me to let him know exactly where I was.

"Sounded like Fang blew up at your mate," he said, "and I get a feeling that Derek and Max would _not_ get on well."

I sighed, glancing over at him. Somehow, no matter what, he always ended up finding my precise location.

"Yeah, he did," I replied, "and no, probably not anymore. Heck, we might've all been buddies if Fang hadn't flipped out."

_Might've._ That sounded . . . almost pleasant, for some weird reason I didn't know about. Maybe it felt good to think that I could've had friends for the first time in my life. But then again, I didn't exactly _want_ friends. I wanted this mission to be finished, over, accomplished, whatever, so I could get on with _my_ life—so I could _have_ a life.

"I think it could still work out," Iggy smiled, turning in my direction. Heck, if he hadn't been, well, _blind_, he would've been looking right at me. "I think Max's takin' his side. She and Fang don't get along all the time, either."

"Gee, I wonder why," I muttered, sarcasm dripping heavily. He chuckled at that, and I had this moment where I wondered, _Did I just make him laugh?_ "Is he always that possessive, though?"

"When it comes to Max or any of the rest of us, yup. Always the strong, silent type, y'know?"

"I noticed." I paused a moment, feeling that . . . that _twinge_ come up in my chest again. I could've sworn it was guilt even though I'd never felt that before in my life. "I guess . . . well . . . I never really had anybody watch out for me. Well, Derek does . . . a little . . . sort of . . . I think . . . but . . ."

"I think Derek's just tryin' to figure out where he fits," Iggy mused. "He knows you from . . . _That Place_ . . . but, from what Max was sayin', he knew Jeb as well as we do."

I swallowed hard, looking down at the ground far beneath us. I realized that even if I hated Max herself, I couldn't hate this kid, this boy—man, really—who was flying alongside me and looking at the bright side of things even though he was blind and his life sucked. Maybe . . . _maybe_ . . . I _would_ spare this one. Then he and I could go off and mope about our horrible lives together. Or something. Or maybe I'd just let him go. I didn't know. I was so awfully confused that I could barely think straight. And yet . . . I felt as if I could talk to Iggy and he wouldn't mind listening. Heh, it'd be nice if it turned out that all my life's problems stemmed from lacking someone to talk to, huh? Unfortunately, it isn't that simple. But he gave me a really weird feeling, as if I could angst about all my problems and he'd just listen patiently. As if he were . . . I dunno . . . easy to talk to. Or something. I sighed.

"I don't fit anywhere," I said softly. "I'm not . . . normal. Sure, wings and all, but . . . it's more than that. It's . . . complicated."

"How so?" he asked. "I mean, you're a bird kid freak like the rest of us . . . at least, you _feel_ like it."

I chuckled, but it was strained at best and weak at worst. I jabbed a thumb into my chest even though I knew he couldn't see it.

"Three percent bird, right here. 'Mark Two,' they call it. Not to mention I have a cerebral implant that gives me awful headaches when it spazzes. It's supposed to speed up brain power . . . or something . . ." Sure, I was lying about it's _real_ function. Like I was gonna tell him I could talk to the Director! "I . . . I also have an expiration set to go off in four years exactly."

I swallowed hard again, this time hard_er_. It felt as if a lump were growing in my throat, making me choke. I had a difficult time getting that feeling to go away, and I glanced over at Iggy. His eyebrows were raised curiously, and I had a feeling that if he could have, he would've blinked in surprise.

"Three percent? That's . . . interesting . . . but if _you_ have an expiration . . ."

He trailed off, seemingly thinking, but then he sighed and shrugged a bit.

"None of us has any idea when ours are."

"There're . . . rumors . . . that you all don't have them," I said slowly, seriously hating this line of thought. "It'd be . . . nice . . . not to have one, too . . . I could kinda stay somewhere. At least have a go at normalness."

I sighed heavily; this was _way_ more than I'd ever let out at once. Normally, I treasured that little emotionless shell I was prone to hiding in. Iggy floated a bit closer to me, and I looked over at him. He seemed . . . sad now. When he spoke, his voice was quiet.

"We know we're gonna expire," he said. "Everybody from that hellhole does. Just dunno _when_. Me, Max, and Fang? We're _ancient_. Eighteen and still ticking time bombs."

"Seventeen here," I whispered, feeling all the color drain from my face. "I'm hardly gonna be drinkin' age when . . ."

I broke off, swallowing hard. That thought hurt so _much_. I couldn't stand it. It just . . . wasn't . . . _fair_! I wanted to beat my fists into a wall and scream bloody murder. _Oh, Director, I hate you for this . . ._

"Maybe . . . maybe there's a way to outwit it," I said slowly. "Or maybe . . . maybe the rumors are for real."

"I say just live like any other mutant kid like us would," he replied, "and not give a care until the date appears. Plain and simple. Besides . . . who cares to know when they're gonna die? Seriously."

I nearly turned on him and screamed "_I care!_" at the top of my lungs. And why? Because I _do_. The thought of having an expiration date ticking my life down made me sick to my stomach. It terrified me. There ain't much that can scare me, but those expirations sure can. I _hate_ them. But I didn't say any of that; instead, I just shrugged.

"I don't know why they even need them," I said, realizing that was a true thought of my very own. "Last night . . . I was so _sure_ mine had showed up. Had Derek check, then he went and played a trick on me even though he knows better than to joke about it. It's my . . . paranoia, I guess."

Paranoia, my eye. I get scared stiff as a freakin' _tree_ at the thought of it. Iggy turned in my direction, and I thought I saw a flash of understanding on his face.

"No room for paranoia in our lives," he answered. "Just gotta . . . jump in headfirst, I guess. The only time . . . that I'd admit I was afraid was when we were in D.C. We were looking for our folks, and . . . I was mad that the address next to mine led to nothin'. Absolutely nothin'."

When he said that, he sounded so . . . miserable. So silently angry that he'd been gypped. His eyebrows furrowed a bit as he sighed, and I bit my bottom lip. Then I surprised myself by feeling sorry for him. Maybe he was the one person with whom I could be totally honest—even though I wasn't sure if I knew what it meant to be honest.

"I'm so sorry, Iggy," I murmured. "I really am. I guess . . . I guess I'd feel the same, too."

He turned and, had he been able to see me, would've looked right into my eyes. He was quiet for a long time before he held out his hand. I don't know why I did, but I snaked mine into his, and he gave my hand a hard squeeze. It was at that moment that I had the fleeting thought of that maybe it wouldn't be so bad to tell the Director "I quit" and just hang Itex. Then again, my life is filled with maybes. But I squeezed his hand back, and he sighed.

"Glad someone does."

That was all he said, and we continued to fly side-by-side, albeit quietly. My mind was spinning as I tried to crawl back into my emotionless little hole even though I knew I'd already poked a bit of myself out of it. But I still had an assignment to complete, and my survival was still the most important. And, well, in only a few short hours, I'd catch a bullet somewhere in my body. Then I'd end up back at the School explaining to everyone what was going on. And yet . . . when Iggy took my hand . . . I felt a strange fluttering in my chest. That was the first time that'd ever happened. Maybe I hadn't been built quite as emotionless as everyone had assumed.


	8. 7: Plan Martyrdom

**A/N:** Derek to JaxSolo, Del to me, everybody else to "Jimmy Pats." And yes, a new _Jorad_ chappie is coming soon!

* * *

**Chapter Seven – Plan Martyrdom**

I started to get quite nervous after we'd been airborne for another hour and a half. I knew that that ambush I'd requested would pop up at any minute, and I was getting . . . well . . . _scared_. That feeling must've shown on my face because I was asked, once by Nudge and once by Angel, if I were all right. I just told them that, yeah, I was fine, and that my blood sugar was probably running a little low. Max suggested we take a breather, but I said I'd be fine for another hour or so. Besides, as Nudge reminded us multiple times, when we got to San Francisco, we could swing by Ghirardelli Square and gorge ourselves on chocolate. Well, _that_ would shoot my blood sugar levels through the roof, eh? Hey, I could be the first diabetic bird kid! What fun! _Not!_ Yet I have to admit that the thought of chocolate was a really pleasant thought. Then again, I've hardly had _any_ sugar in my life, so a sudden overload of chocolate could very well make me sick. But the kids just seemed so delighted with the prospect of going somewhere and having fun that I didn't say anything that would dampen their spirits. Nudge wanted to drink chocolate syrup by the gallon (Max shot that idea down pretty quickly), Angel wanted to see the Golden Gate Bridge, Gazzy wanted to swing by Fisherman's Wharf, and I think everybody wanted to take a cable car. I personally just wanted to not get shot in a critical location when the ambush came. And besides, I'd never been anywhere in my life, never got to have fun, so I didn't know how. This was just a pit stop on the way to my ultimate goal.

So we were just flying along, and I had finally come up from my low altitude to fly even with the others. Derek had descended to us, though he kept a distance of about twenty feet between himself and Fang, who looked less irritable now that he'd had a while to work off whatever bad energy was bundled up inside him. Nudge was happily chattering on about all that we could see and do, how we could go check out Lombard Street, and nobody seemed to want to stop her. Angel was beaming happily, Gazzy looked like he might faint with joy, and even Max looked a bit more cheerful than usual. I had to admit, though, that it seemed as if Iggy were secretly upset that he wouldn't be able to actually see all the sights. In a very out-of-character move for me, I desperately wanted to help him, to fix his blindness. But I knew I couldn't, so I tried not to worry about it. Instead, I tried to worry more about the ambush that was coming up at any moment. We were out in the middle of nowhere, somewhere between San Diego and San Francisco, but closer to the former than the latter, and this would be the perfect spot for it.

I tried to concentrate on staying calm, on getting my nerves under control. After all, I'd actually practiced this plan once or twice. But in practice, I was never actually wounded. I closed my eyes and took a deep, calming breath, and I was just about as peaceful as I could be when I heard a low whirring behind me. My stomach turned a somersault and landed with a hard _thud_ in the pit of my gut, but I kept flying as if I hadn't heard a thing. And yet . . . it was getting definitely closer, and I knew it was _them_. Still I kept flying calmly, but a sudden motion near me made me look up. Iggy's head had jerked up, and he was turning his head every which-way. I knew he'd heard _them_, too.

"You guys hear that?" he said. "Sounds like it's coming from behind us."

That was our cue, I figured. We all turned around, and when we saw the robots bearing down on us (yep, they flew, too), Max gasped. Derek's eyes went wide, Nudge let out a shriek that sounded like she was trying to hold it back, and little Angel clutched Total close. The dog growled at the approaching robots, and I saw Gazzy start digging around in his knapsack. But two seconds later, Max was waving us off, ordering us to split up and _move_. Angel grabbed Derek's arm, and they raced off. Nudge grabbed Iggy's hand and hauled him out of the way of a robot, and I soared higher into the sky before doubling back. I might as well make this look as damn good as I could before I took a bullet. Already I could see that the robots were eyeing me. Time to get this over with. Ignoring my pounding heart and tightening stomach, and sped down, punching at those stupid bags of bolts and knocking one or two out of the fight. Max and Fang were nearby, doing pretty well for not having undergone all the combat training I had.

"Guys!" I called to them. They looked up at me for one moment before going back to punching those robots ("Flyboys," Max had called them) right outta the sky. "They're after me an' Derek! I just know it! Get out of here!"

Max shouted back a negative and kicked a Flyboy in the neck. Gazzy called that he had a grenade, and Max yelled for him to get it ready. I knew then that it was now or never to be the hero of the day. The Flyboys were already aiming at me; I saw the laser lights. I zipped higher, closer to Iggy. If I were going to be the hero, I'd need to save someone's life. I figured he was the best choice since he was hovering there, seeming a bit confused but listening to the battle, trying to calculate where all the 'bots were. As I raced up to him, I saw a little red dot on my side. _Oh, no, not _there But I swallowed hard, called his name, and his head whipped around to me. I had my hands on his shoulder and was pushing him to the side when there was a sound like dry wood snapping. In the split-second after that sound . . . well, let's just say that I now know the definition of _martyrdom_. I felt the pain about a half a second before I saw the blood pooling on the side of my windbreaker, and instantly, I lost the wind in my wings and sank ten feet. But I recovered, grimacing with each breath I took. It burned like fire to breathe, and that pain confirmed my worst fear: they'd shot a hole through one of my air sacs. (Now, if you've ever studied avian anatomy, you would know that birds breathe _through_ their lungs and into the air sacs, and it's the same for bird kids. Thus, taking a bullet to an air sac is _not_ good.) I clenched a hand against my side as I flew back to Iggy's side. He was calling for me, trying to find me, and I couldn't help but smile faintly. First time anybody had ever wanted to find me. I got up near him, cringing with each ragged breath I took. Even though I'd asked for this—literally—I wasn't faking anything. I wasn't faking the excruciating pain in my side, I wasn't faking my shortness of breath. When I reached Iggy, I put a hand on his shoulder.

"I'm . . . right here," I panted. He reached out and grabbed my shoulder.

"Thank God," he said, but when I didn't reply, just grunted, his eyebrows crashed together worriedly. "Del, are you hit?"

I didn't answer with more than another grunt, trying to keep from letting out this scream of pain that was bubbling up in me.. He squeezed my shoulder.

"_Del, are you hit?!_"

"Uh huh . . ."

Damn, this _hurt_. And I must've sounded really pathetic because he grabbed one of my arms and put it around his own neck, keeping a hand on my waist so I wouldn't fall. I knew the weight of the two of us was murder on his wings, but I couldn't fly anymore, not with the heavy blood loss I had. It was just gushing from my side, and almost in an instant, he found where the bullet had hit me. I heard a sharp breath from him, and then . . .

"Oh, my God."

He breathed that as if it were a prayer, almost as if it were silently followed by "please don't let her die." But I knew nobody would ever be _that_ concerned for me. I heard an explosion and looked down; Gazzy had thrown his grenade and blown up two Flyboys. Yet I knew that there would be a second wave. That was how this went; there would be a second wave coming in a few minutes, so I had to move fast. But it was so hard to think when I could barely see straight; already I was feeling lightheaded from blood loss. I sagged into Iggy's arms, feeling this strange urge to lie down and sleep, and he kept a firm hold on me while he called for Max. Even though his grip was secure, however, he couldn't hold me forever. I would've helped keep us airborne if I could've, but since I couldn't, I decided the best thing to do was to let go. I closed my eyes, sighed hard, and allowed myself to fall like a stone. I heard Nudge scream "Oh, Max!" before there was a whistling sound next to me and arms were wrapped tightly around my waist.

"C'mon, Del, you fool girl." It was Derek. "I'm gettin' you outta here."

Then I heard Max's voice beside me, and she was telling Derek to shift some of my weight over onto her so his wings wouldn't have to strain so much. He eased me over onto her, and a minute later, I was lying on the ground, eyes squeezed shut against the sun and that awful pain in my side. Somewhere in the distance, I could hear a helicopter, and I coughed, wheezing badly.

"Guys . . ." I managed, somehow blinking open and looking up at everyone. They were all leaned over me, looking worried. Huh. "Go on . . . get outta here."

"And just _leave you_?!" Gazzy looked incredulous. But, then again, that was the plan.

"We leave _no one_ behind," Max said firmly as Derek unzipped my windbreaker and pressed his hands against my side.

I coughed again, feeling my air sac tear worse every time I did. Oh, Lord, it _hurt_ . . . Blood was still seeping out, and Derek had pulled my extra tee-shirt from my knapsack and was holding it against the bullet hole. I could still hear the chopper, and I knew the others could, too, because Nudge started looking fidgety. Fang and Iggy were both listening, and I realized that I had to do better to get them all to leave. I reached up and gripped Derek's shoulder.

"Get . . . them . . . _out_," I hissed at him. His eyebrows shot up.

"Del, don't be an idiot. We're not going anywhere without you."

"Yes, you _are_. They're . . . they're gonna come around again, I know it."

"There _is_ a chopper out there," Fang murmured, "and it's getting closer."

"Told . . . ya . . ." I coughed again, and Iggy put a hand on my shoulder.

"You saved my life, Del," he said. "I _know_ you did. So we're not leaving without you."

I looked up at them and tried to force a smile, but I was hurt too badly. Now I just wanted these kids to get lost so the 'bots could come take me back to the School, so I could get this piece of lead out of my air sac. I hissed in a breath as Derek ripped away the bottom half of my shirt and poured water over the bullet hole, washing away the blood. Too bad, though, because more flowed out. I groaned faintly, still listening for the chopper. It was coming, and it was coming closer. I looked up at the Flock and Derek.

"You need to go," I told them. "I'd rather lose one and save seven than lose seven to save one."

Derek looked at me warily, as if he wondered what I was doing, and I glared up at him. The chopper was drawing nearer with the characteristic _whomp-whomp_ sound of its rotor blades. Any minute now, they'd drop down to get me, and if the Flock were still there, then my mission would come to a rather abrupt halt. I just stared at Derek for a long time, and after a moment, his eyes went wide as if he understood what I was doing, where I was going with this.

"Look," I went on, blinking slowly to at least try to keep from passing out before these guys got clear. "I can . . . get away. I'll be fine. I . . . I can get away, and I'll . . . I'll be fine."

"Del . . ." Max was still not keen on this. I looked at her.

"_Please_, Max," I said quietly. "Take them and _go_."

The _whomp-whomp_ was getting louder, I was wheezing worse, and everybody looked hesitant. Then Nudge looked up and squeaked. She started stammering Max's name and pointing, and everyone wheeled around to find about three Flyboys clambering up a nearby footpath. Wow, I really _was_ cutting it close . . . Derek tried to heft me, but I shook my head.

"Too late," I murmured. "Not enough time . . . _Go!_"

"But Del . . ." Angel didn't want to leave me, either.

"It's too late! They're already here! Go! I'll get away!"

The Flyboys were almost upon us when Max made an executive decision and yelled for the group to go up-and-away. Then they were gone, and I was nearly unconscious from blood loss as it was. I looked up into the sky and could barely see them anymore, and it was then that those robots hefted me up. One grabbed my arms and the other took hold of my feet, and I was hauled off to where the chopper had landed and was waiting. There was a stretcher inside that I half-crawled and was half-tossed onto. Okay, so nobody said those 'bots were human. But I leaned back, sighing heavily, as the chopper took off, headed back for the School. Suddenly, though, I felt a hand on my side, and my eyelids popped open as best they could. Shivers ran all through my body as I looked up into a face I'd only seen from a distance. What the hell was Batchelder doing on this chopper?!

"How're you doing, Delilah?" he asked me, examining my side. I clamped a hand over it.

"Oh . . . 'bout as well as can be expected for gettin'—" I inhaled raggedly, hearing the horrible wheezing coming from my punctured air sac. "—a bullet through the air sac."

"Sorry about that," Batchelder replied, moving my hand before taking a folded piece of gauze and pressing it against my side. "You weren't supposed to be wounded critically."

"Tell that to somebody more naïve than me."

Batchelder looked up at me in what seemed like surprise. Oh, so he didn't think I knew about the Director's plan to oust me as soon as the Flock was gone, eh? Well, I did. That was why I wanted to survive. But he stared at me for a mere moment before tending my side. I knew surgery would have to wait until we got back to the School, but at least he was slowing the blood loss. And Derek and the others had gotten away, thus beginning my game of cat-and-mouse.

"Wha' 're you doin' here, Batchelder?" I asked, words slurring a bit from exhaustion, low blood sugar, and general blood loss. "Come to smuggle me out, too?"

There was another long pause from him as he kept pressing against my side to stop the bleeding. Then he side thinly and just _looked_ at me, almost as if he were looking _through_ me. As if he were looking lovingly at Max instead of me.

"If you want me to."

Suddenly, I was filled with such anger toward him, toward Max, toward the Director, toward everyone. This guy cared about the Flock. _No one_ cared for me. _No one._ And here he was, saying he'd smuggle me out like he did with them if I wanted him to. I narrowed my eyes at him in the most menacing way I knew how and spat out the first nasty thing that came to my mind.

"Save it, Batchelder. Save it for somebody who actually wants it."

At that, he looked . . . sad. I was taken aback by that, but he just nodded. I wondered then how much he actually knew about me, about everything surrounding my life. I wondered how many secrets there were that he knew about and I didn't. He turned and pulled something from a small bag near him. When he turned back around, I saw that it was a small bottle and a syringe. He filled the syringe before taking my arm and pushing up my sleeve. I was getting too drowsy to think straight, but I do know that I was shaking as he gently injected the needle into my arm. I got sleepier as a few minutes dragged past. A sedative, huh? Dang, this guy was sneaky. But I was grateful for the rest, and as my eyes closed, I heard Batchelder murmur an apology to me. What the . . . ? But I was out cold before I could ask what he meant.


	9. 8: Home Sweet School

**A/N: **Derek to JaxSolo, Del to me, everybody else to "Jimmy Pats."

**Chapter Eight – Home Sweet School**

I don't know how long it was after Batchelder apologized for me for reasons I had yet to figure out, but I gradually came around. It's just that my eyelids were so frikkin' _heavy_ that it wasn't even funny. But I woke up in this cold room that smelled of cleaning fluid and starched sheets, and I was resting on a hard bunk that I felt as if I ought to recognize. When I finally managed to pry my eyes open, I _did_ recognize it; it was my old bed in my old dorm at the old stompin' grounds. I took a look around at the place; it was still just as sterile and heartless as it'd always been, but I guess there was no irony there. And it was quiet as a tomb in there, and just that stark silence made shivers run down my back. Then there was that dull throbbing in my side that reminded me what had happened only a few hours before. I had gotten shot trying to "save" the Flock from certain doom when in reality it had all been planned so I could come back, recoup, and give a progress report if only to keep the Director from making my implant spaz while I was attempting to eat. I lay in my bed for a while, staring up at the cold white ceiling, before I heard a racket of some sort from outside the door. Gingerly, I sat up and started listening.

"She is our most valuable effort, Doctor! Do you realize she was nearly _dead_ from blood loss because those robots were allowed to wound her in such a critical location!"

I . . . what? I nearly _died_? Holy. Crap. I blinked in shock, but then I realized that I knew that voice. Somebody was on the receiving end of the Director's wrath, and I had a feeling that it wasn't your ordinary white-coated scientist who plays with test tubes all day long. Then there was another voice, and I just about froze when I heard it.

"You need to be taking this up with the programmers, Madam Director, and not me. I was just assigned to train Derek."

My heart skipped a beat. Batchelder was out there talking with the Director about me. I almost eased off the bunk but really didn't want to waste the energy.

"_Subject Seventeen_," the Director spat hotly. "When you speak of him, refer to him by his designation. And as for Delilah, you seem to have taken an unnatural interest in her, as well. Could it be that you wish to turn her from her duty and mold her into an ally for your pathetic mutant _failures_?"

My eyebrows and suspicion levels shot skyward when Batchelder didn't reply. No . . . he _couldn't_ . . . Well, that would explain all the times I caught him watching me, observing me, as if he'd been trying to "buddy up" to me and convert me to his side. Heh, like _that_ was ever gonna happen. I sat there on my bunk, arms crossed, and after a moment, the shouting match started up again, only there was less shouting and more bossing-around.

"Doctor, you will see to it that those robots are programmed to _never_ critically injure the specimen whenever her self-sacrifice protocols are activated. I will _not_ lose _my_ project to a programming error that could've been easily avoided by some simple last-minute tests!"

I frowned at that. "The specimen"? "My project"? So I wasn't a human being, even ninety-seven percent of one? I was _just_ a specimen? Fine, Director; you can just be that way and see who comes to your funeral. Oh, well, _I_ will because I'll probably be the one to see you go down. I was about to start swearing under my breath when the door swung open. I looked up, and there was Madam Evil herself. She smiled at me (though it was cold and unfeeling, I noticed) as she entered.

"Hello, Delilah," she said. "Are you feeling well?"

Okay, it was time to get back into my smartass bird kid mindset. I crossed my arms and scowled.

"Do you think I'm 'feeling well' after catching a bullet in my freaking _air sac_? Look, lady, I don't care if it costs ten billion big ones to fix those stupid robots, but next time, it'd better be a shoulder wound or a simple graze!"

I glowered at the Director, conjuring up a million sensations of anger, hate, rage . . . everything I'd ever felt, ever projected during the endless months of training for this assignment. She just studied me, smiling faintly with icy pleasure.

"I see your sarcasm has not been at all dulled," she said. "I _am_ pleased you were not killed during Plan Martyrdom."

"Look, Director," I hissed, jabbing my index finger at her, "quit makin' it sound like I'm the one who invented that stupid plan. _You're_ the one who implemented it in me, and _you're_ the one who got the idea to program me with just enough creativity to know when to activate it. So don't go making it sound like this is _my_ fault!" 

She was silent for a long time as I folded my arms tighter and looked away, making myself seethe with anger. Back in the day, I was always arrogant, smart-mouthed, and equipped with a temper that could be equated to throwing a match into an open propane tank. Then she spoke, and her voice was as cold as a glacier.

"Yes, perhaps, but _you_, Delilah, were the one who made the call."

"Oh, just shut up and tell me why you're bothering me."

"Since you are well enough to be snide, you are obviously well enough to undergo one last test."

At this, my heart sped up a bit. Tests? Like what? Blood work? Treadmill tests? Things where they'd shoot electric currents into my brain to see how it would respond? But from the smirk on the Director's face, I had this really bad feeling that whatever it would be was _not_ going to be painless.

"You have heard rumors that you have subliminal programming, have you not?" the Director continued. I refused to grant her the satisfaction of an answer, but that didn't seem to deter her. "We have not done extensive testing on that encoding. Since you are here, it is time to test it, to see how you perform when your assassination programming is activated."

My heart skipped a beat. They were going to test my programming? On what, a punching bag? Or maybe they'd lied and they'd caught the Flock, too, so this was the way I was going to kill them. Maybe I'd already reached the end of my usefulness but didn't know it. I swallowed a bit harder than I would've liked, but I still kept my emotionless façade.

"Whatever," I mumbled. "Just get the hell out."

And yet . . . she didn't move. She just stood there, face growing steadily icier, steadily angrier.

"No, Delilah," she said finally. "You are coming with _me_. I will not allow you to lag about when that despicable Maximum Ride and her conglomerate of _failures_ is still alive and well and causing trouble for my company. Come."

At this, she held out her hand, eyes cold and her gaze harsh. I growled under my breath and stood, taking it easy on my side even though it felt totally healed, thanks to my rapid healing. But I didn't take her hand. Instead, I shouldered past her, purposely trying to knock her off-balance, as I skulked from my room—if you could call it that. It was little more than an empty lab that had been converted to an _extremely_ small living quarters, complete with a hard-as-a-rock bed and a bathroom. And a widescreen, high def TV. But that's beside the point.

The Director led me from the room and down several winding corridors. We passed a long span of windows that offered a view into the labs, and I took that moment to glance in. There were scientists playing with their chemistry sets like good little children, and a couple really weird-looking experiments were locked up in cages. Dang, were these guys _ever_ gonna give up playing with folks' genes! I guessed not. But as I looked at the windows, I noticed my own reflection. I was in gray sweatpants and a gray tank top; nothing new there. I always was dressed in something like that for training. My shaggy auburn hair was pulled back into a ponytail that was neater than one I would've done; also nothing new. My hair was always up off my neck whenever I was going to be undergoing strenuous physical work. But as I studied my reflection, what startled me was the presence of something totally unfamiliar to me. On my chest, right beneath my collarbone, was a tattoo composed of thick, dark lines that twisted together in an intricate design that looked suspiciously like a pair of wings. I touched it, shocked; where had this come from! Who had done this! The last time I'd looked at myself, I hadn't had a wide _tattoo_ across my chest! I was still staring, totally confused, when the Director came up behind me. She had this smile of cold satisfaction on her face.

"Do you like it?"

"What the hell is it!" I shrieked, getting a bit scared.

I kept staring at the . . . _thing_ . . . even going as far as scratching at it to see if it would come off. Well, it didn't, and the Director just chuckled. She came to my side and put a hand on my shoulder; I shrugged it off, still gawking at that thing on my chest.

"In the first place," she said, "it is an identification tag. Wherever you are, whoever sees that will know you are property of Itex."

I swallowed hard as I felt rage bubble up in me again. _"Property of Itex"!_ That was all I was to them: property! I wanted to spin around and scream "I'm a _person_!" at her, but I restrained myself and limited my seething anger to another hard swallow.

"Secondly," she continued, "it is something of a tracking device. Wherever you are, I will know, and I will be able to find you."

The icy tone in her voice sent horrified waves of freezing terror down my spine as I shuddered. I had _not_ seen this one coming, not by a long shot. This felt . . . bad, to put it simply. In more flowery language, it felt as if my deepest sense of privacy had been suddenly and thoughtlessly violated. My eyes went wide as I stared at the ID mark, the . . . tracker . . . and my stomach turned a somersault before landing in the pit of my gut. Oh, this was bad, bad, bad, bad, _bad_. But I didn't get a chance to stare any longer because the Director took my arm and dragged me away toward the School's "playground." I gulped as I heard enraged howls echoing from across the yard. _Oh, no . . ._ I braced myself as I shot a cocky glare at the Director.

"I didn't know there was a full moon tonight," I quipped.

She just smirked at me.


	10. 9: Testing

**A/N: **Derek to JaxSolo, Del to me, everybody else to "Jimmy Pats." And yes, there _is_ a reason why this chap. is in third-person.

* * *

**Chapter Nine – Testing **

By the time the Director led Delilah out into the yard, the feverish howls from across the way were ear-splitting. The chosen opponent, one of those infamous Erasers that was normally on the execution squad, had already undergone total metamorphosis, it seemed. The Director frowned; that was much too premature, but perhaps it would work out for the best. Perhaps if Delilah were attacked by a fully morphed Eraser executioner, there would be a more satisfying exhibition of her embedded assassination programming. The shrieking grew angrier as Delilah grew more uneasy. Hmm. Perhaps she wasn't quite as courageous as the company had expected. No matter; this was a test of her subliminal encoding, _not_ her bravery.

The Director snapped her fingers and frowned when Delilah didn't respond. But then she realized. Ah, of course; the girl was deaf in that ear. That defect made her a liability since it handicapped her ability to function at the fullness of her potential. The Director's frown deepened; how stupid had those technicians been? They _knew_ Delilah was the product of years of research and development, and the girl herself had cost nearly five million United States dollars, and that included all the equipment and salaries for the scientists; Project Delilah had cost Itex another seven million euros for the work done by the European researchers and geneticists, not to mention for the cost of the search for the most desirable genes that could be combined to produce the most advantageous combination. But that deafness issue had been as costly as if someone had doused several hundred thousand dollars with gasoline and threw a lighted match on the pile. It had caused Delilah to become a defective product, and that was ignoring her secret passion for freedom. She had thought it had gone unnoticed, but the Director was not blind to it. That was why, when the time came for Delilah's retirement, the company would have adequate reason to _dispose_ of her, no matter the cost it had taken to develop her as the perfect assassin. 

The howls from across the yard grew more frantic, and then the sound of almost three hundred pounds of hard, developed music slamming into the side of a chain-link cage. The Director snapped her finger beside Delilah's right ear, and the girl's head snapped immediately in the direction of the sound. She turned and looked at the Director, who pointed up toward a nearby wall. Delilah's sharp gray eyes darted to a wide television screen there. Scenes from some of the movies and television shows she'd watched in her youth were flashing across it, and the Director watched with satisfaction as Delilah's gaze latched onto the screen and didn't waver. Her unblinking gaze remained locked onto the screen as the subliminal commands sprinkled through the video clips filtered into her subconscious, into the very core of her finely tuned brain. Delilah's face was now completely expressionless, almost nonhuman from the lack of facial motion. All she could do was stare, seemingly listlessly, at the screen. But then the video snapped suddenly off, the screen going black, and Delilah turned deliberately around. The Director retreated to the interior of the School to watch the scene from the comfort of her air-conditioned office. She watched as Delilah strode purposefully to the center of the yard, and not thirty seconds later, that Eraser executioner came bounding from its restraints, saliva trailing down its fangs and bloodlust gleaming in its yellow eyes. And there was Delilah, fists clenched, pale gray eyes narrowed. And she stood there . . . stood there . . . _stood there_ . . . When the Eraser was five feet from her and about to take a bite out of her abdomen, she unfurled her wings and propelled herself skyward, flipping over her opponent and landing soundly on the other side. When the Eraser wheeled around, snarling at her, claws extended, she replied with a perfectly timed roundhouse kick to its jaw. It staggered and roared in pain and rage, but Delilah still looked unfazed, following the first kick with one aimed precisely at the middle of the Eraser's chest, pushing it away. Then she took to the skies, powerful golden wings spreading and catching the breeze. The Director could not help but smirk with satisfaction as she watched. Perhaps those five million dollars had not been wasted after all. The Project Delilah outside in the yard, face emotionless—as it had been designed to be—and eyes darting swiftly about, revealing a mind that was executing maneuver after maneuver, was not the same Delilah that had grown frightened of her identification tattoo or had shot off some witty comeback just ten minutes before. This one, the one hovering just above the growling, snarling Eraser, was a born assassin, bred to kill, designed to slaughter. The Director pressed her hands to the windowsill and gazed out, marveling at her creation.

Delilah lingered above the Eraser's head for another moment before diving swiftly down, landing perfectly and instantly tucking her wings in as the beast slashed at her. In that moment, it became the most heated hand-to-hand combat: fist versus paw, nails versus claws, brains versus feral impulses. Delilah's fists were a blur as she traded blows with the Eraser, ducking and twisting, whirling and punching. The ratio of hits to misses was very high even though the Eraser twice raked its claws down Delilah's forearms, leaving bloody lines across the skin. Yet even then Delilah did not flinch. She kept fighting, kept doing what she had been programmed to do. Making use of her wings, the girl soared heavenward again before diving back down, fists cocked back. She landed a right cross so hard on the Eraser's jaw that it seemed as if the animal's head would go spinning like a globe. Blood trickled down Delilah's arms, staining her hands red, but even that did not stop her. Even the black eye she received from a wild punch did not slow her. She just kept fighting. She chopped her hand into the side of the Eraser's neck before leveling it with a rapid, well-aimed rabbit punch. The Eraser staggered forward, growling furiously, but Delilah was not yet finished. She spun about, leg extended, and delivered a crushing roundhouse to her opponent's neck. There was a sickening _snap_, and with a howl of excruciating pain, the Eraser collapsed to the ground. Blood pooled on the ground around it as Delilah sank into a defensive posture. The Director, overwhelmed with what at least appeared to be pride, flipped open the intercom channel to the yard.

"Well done, Delilah," she said. "Run, sheep, run."

At that, every muscle in Delilah's frame went loose, for when the subliminal encoding was suddenly deactivated like that, it took with it the part of her brain that controlled her consciousness. The girl slumped to the grass, not two feet away from the dead Eraser and lay there in a semi-comatose state, blood spattered across her tank top and dripping down her arms. But she _had_ done well, the Director mused as two technicians entered the yard to collect the Director's most prized specimen. Now Project Delilah was fully operational.


	11. 10: Airborne Again

**A/N:** Del to me, Derek to JaxSolo, everybody else to "Jimmy Pats." Oh, and I know that the new book has come out (because I bought it XD) but I'm going to continue writing this story as if it hadn't. It's easier for me that way. But... if there's something super-interesting in the book, I'll probably mention it. Just thought I'd say so nobody will go "Hey, this doesn't agree with book four!" I'm not intending for it to.

* * *

**Chapter Ten – Airborne Again**

_Holy crap, what a headache . . ._

Okay, look, waking up with a migraine isn't fun, especially when you remember being awake, say, five minutes ago. And then I'd looked at some TV screen . . . and then my mind was blank. I must've passed out, because now my head was spinning like a top and I thought I might be sick. I didn't know where I was, either, because I was stretched out on something that didn't feel like my own bed, nor did it even _smell_ like my dorm. In the background, there were beeping sounds that could only mean medical equipment or something, and there was a bright, yellow-white light shining down on me that made me want to keep my eyes as tightly closed as possible, so that's what I did. But I must've hissed in a breath because I heard voices around me.

"Is she coming around?"

"She's coming around. What're her vitals?"

"All good. Brain activity, normal. Heart rate, fast, but that's normal. Blood pressure, steady. Respiration, functioning properly."

"Excellent. Give her a shot of antidote and let's get her back on assignment. The Director's getting testy."

"Oh, somebody tell her to shove it."

"Hey, look, _you_ tell her. I'm not risking getting mauled by those werewolves. I wasn't on their development team, so I don't have to like them."

I chuckled internally. Dang, these guys were wimps. There was a prick in the bend of my arm that must've been the antidote they were talking about. Antidote for what? Was I poisoned? Is that why I had a killer headache and didn't remember thing one about what'd happened after I'd looked at the screen in the yard? Huh. But as soon as there was that slight stinging in my arm, the excruciating pounding in my head vanished. I cracked first one eye, then the other, open and looked around. Oh, yeah, I knew this place after all. Lab 19A, west quadrant of the School. This was where I'd learned I'd come from—born, if you will. Hatched, if you won't. There were two scientists in the room, one on either side of me, each monitoring things about me. I had wires and tubes hooked up to every plausible location on my person; that made me wonder if something nasty had happened. What, had I had a bird kid-sized heart attack? I didn't _feel_ as if I had. But then I glanced down at my forearms. All up and down my arms were these long, puckered pink scars, and I stared at them in shock. These were fresh. Where had I gotten them, though? I put a hand to my forehead, brows furrowed, and in an instant, one of those scientists was at my side. He started asking me all these questions about my health and started yelling for a syringe of some chemical compound or other, and I shook my head rapidly.

"To hell with your compounds!" I grumbled irritably, holding out my arms. "Look at these arms of mine! What happened to them?! Ten minutes ago they were fine!"

The scientists looked at each other, expressions of shock on their faces. Then the paranoid compound-demanding one turned back to me.

"Twenty-one," he said, using my identification number, "you've been unconscious for about two days now. The Director wanted to test your subliminal encoding and shutting it down proved to be a bit more complicated than we had anticipated. Apparently, that command never passed final testing, and it shut down a good portion of your brain's functions."

"Explains the headache," I mumbled rubbing my forehead. "Did you morons get it fixed?"

"We did," the second one replied after a pause, consulting his clipboard and scribbling some scientist jargon on it. "Everything is functioning as it should."

"Greeeeeeeat," I chuckled wryly. "Ain't nothin' like being a well-oiled machine."

I glanced up at them and read their name tags: Dave and Randy, Dave being the compound-demanding one, and Randy having the clipboard. I crossed my arms (gingerly, though, because of the weird scars) and scowled at them.

"Okay, Randy, ye of the clipboard," I said. He looked up. I pointed to my arms. "Explain _what the hell happened to my arms_!!"

"Then you don't remember the Eraser?" Randy asked me as Dave stared.

"Look, pal," I said, sighing exasperatedly, "if I remembered any Eraser, I'd know what happened to my arms, wouldn't I?"

Enter the theoretical light bulb. My eyes went wide as I stared down at my arms again, studying the scars. Suddenly, I _did_ remember there being an Eraser. I remembered hearing these loud howls and sarcastically telling the Director that I hadn't remembered there was going to be a full moon. Then I'd looked at the TV screen. And then . . . nothing. I rubbed my forehead with my palm and looked up at Dave and Randy, a.k.a. Compound-Demanding Dude and Clipboard Guy, a.k.a the rather stupid-looking scientist pair. Okay, so _these_ characters were messing with my brain? Brilliant. _Not._ Dave checked a nearby monitor, watching the line spike up and down, each little beep from the machine matching my pulse. Clipboard Guy sighed and decided to humor me.

"The Director wanted to test your embedded assassination protocols," he explained slowly, as if I were too out-and-out dumb to understand. "She activated the protocols and pitted you against one of the Eraser executioners, hence the scars on your arms. You won; it was hardly a contest."

"And," I interrupted, lifting my hand before he could continue, "she's been strutting around gloating ever since, am I right?"

They didn't respond, and they didn't even nod. So I took that as a "yes." Typical Director-ness there, folks; she was prone to excessive amounts of pride in her _creations_. But hey, it wasn't like I was no good, after all. Took out an Eraser, eh? _Niiiiiice_ . . . I smirked a bit as they started fiddling with some nearby machinery and the like, checking my breathing and my blood pressure for the umpteenth time. Compound-Demanding Dude—oh, 'scuse me, _Dave_—flashed a penlight in my eyes to check for brain damage. There was none, and I swore under my breath as little yellow and green dots popped up on everything I looked at. Trust me, that's not a fun sensation when you're already surrounded by stark, sterile white everywhere you turn. But when I looked at the door, I nearly jumped off the table in fright as I recognized the face on the other side, eyes all curious and concerned at the same time. Dave and Randy looked up, too, just as the door swung open and Batchelder walked in. I narrowed my eyes in that charmingly menacing way that I have and decided I'd not be nice to him, either, because I still got that weird feeling of being stalked whenever he walked into the same room as I was in. He looked over at me for one moment before turning to the scientists and asking for a report on me. They gave him one, and he seemed to only be listening half-heartedly, because he answered with "Hm" and "I see" too often. He wandered over to me and took my arm, pushing up my sleeve. I tried to free myself from his grasp, but he didn't let go. He ran a hand over the scars on my arm, frowning deeply. I shivered because it hurt to even have those scars pressed on. Then he looked at my other arm, and I noticed out of the corner of my eye that Dave and Randy were watching closely. Then Batchelder looked up at them.

"Did you two even put anything on these cuts?" he asked.

"Just the initial stitches," Dave replied. "Her speed healing was supposed to take care of the rest."

"So no antibiotics, no bandages? I don't suppose the Director would like to hear the way you've treated Delilah here."

I raised an eyebrow as Dave and Randy exchanged an "Uh oh" glance. Since when was Batchelder siding with Madam Evil, using her influence to strike fear into the hearts of the minions? What, had he changed sides? I mean, it'd always seemed to me as if he weren't truly Itex-friendly. Maybe he had something against their whole "take over the world and leave only robots" plot. But let's face it: a world run by robots? Let's think about that for a minute. What happens when you call up, say, Pizza Hut and try to order a pizza? "Hello, you've reached Pizza Hut, home of the Chicago-style deep dish. This is See-Threepio; may I take your order?" (Then again, if _he_ were answering the phone, maybe it'd be Pizza _Hutt_.) But I didn't get long to think about the potentially hilarious complications of leaving robots in charge because Batchelder grabbed a bottle of rubbing alcohol and started cleaning my arms. I hissed in a breath as the alcohol stung like mad, and Batchelder murmured an apology. Then he reached for a roll of bandages and started wrapping up my scars. Something beeped nearby, and Dave and Randy started grabbing for their pagers. Then they were out of the lab like a shot, leaving me and Batchelder. Alone. Yep. I was getting weirded out. There was just _something_ about this guy that did _not_ ring true with me—as if he were trying to be genuine but failing miserably. As he tied off the gauze on my left arm and went on to the right, I finally broke the silence.

"What do you want with me, Batchelder?" I asked, voice as cold as the temperature in the lab. "If you're tryin' to inflict physical harm, then you'd better know I could kick your butt from here to Pluto."

Batchelder looked up at me, still wrapping that gauze around my arm.

"I know you could," he said gently. "That's why I'm not trying to hurt you."

"Then what the heck do you want with me?! I mean, for God's sake, you're beginning to really creep me out, what with the always watching me and ending up wherever I am. I was thinking it was a coincidence until you were there in that chopper! If you're trying out stalker-ism, you're failing—miserably!"

Contrary to what I expected, he didn't seem hurt. He didn't even seem the least bit offended. He just looked . . . concerned. I mean, I'm not very good at reading human emotions, considering how I barely have any of my own, but he seemed at least a tad _worried_—and that startled me more than the stalker-ness had.

"This isn't what you were designed for, Del," he said finally. "The Director is misusing you. We wanted to see if we could improve the human-avian hybrid models, not use you as an assassin."

"Yeah, right," I scoffed. "If this wasn't what I was made for, then somebody could've stopped ol' Madam Rhymes-with-Witchy before I got these stupid assassination protocols!"

Here I stretched out my index finger and put it to my temple as if it were a pistol. I scowled at Batchelder even as he tied off the gauze around my right arm, and I never moved my finger from my temple.

"This is what's coming to me, Batchelder," I hissed, indicating the finger to my head. "And don't you think I don't know, because I damn well do! You don't want me any more than the next Itex crony. You don't even care, so quit pretending you do."

Okay, _now_ he looked hurt. Insulted. _Sad._ He stepped back from me, leaving me with arms that were stinging from whatever antiseptics he'd doused them with.

"You're wrong, Del," he said. "I do. I helped Max. Let me help you. Then you can help _them_."

By that time, I'd had _enough_. He was trying to turn me into a Flock friend, an ally, even though all I wanted was to get this job over and finished so I could run away and be free. And, hell, if she could be Maximum Ride, I could rename myself Delilah Free. It sounded all right, I supposed. But right now, I was so _angry_ with him, with the company, with the entire damn _world_, that I could've torn that freaking lab to shreds and not had a second, contradicting thought. And I just wanted to be left alone. I'd been left alone, held at arms' length, all my life, so why should he start babying me now? He'd had his chance! His chance came when my genes were put together, when I was conceived in that test tube! He could've saved me then, could've helped me, could've taken me away and raised be to be another Flock-ite! But now that chance was gone, and I was just as on my own as I'd always been. I leaped off the table, fists clenched, eyes flashing. Was that fear I saw flicker across his face? Well, it would've been fitting! Knowing who I was, what I could do, he had _every_ right to fear me. If I could kill an Eraser without thinking, I could certainly break him in two over my knee.

"Get out of here, Batchelder!" I shrieked, just about to snap. "I don't _want_ your help! You go keep your false caring to yourself and just go keep lying to that infernal Maximum like you always have! Just _leave me alone_!"

I thought he might cry. At least, his eyes looked so mournful, so pained, that I had this fragmentary thought that I ought to apologize. Well, I'd never apologized once in my life, so why should I start now? He just _looked_ at me in that same terrifying way he'd stared at me in the chopper—y'know, where it felt like he'd been staring _through_ me. He didn't say anything for a long time as I stood there face-to-face with him, seething with rage, hatred, every bitter human passion I could conjure up. Then he opened the lab door.

"They're waiting for you," he said, motioning out. "They want to get you back on your assignment."

I stormed past him and out into the hall, purposefully smacking my shoulder into his to knock him off-balance. I felt like my head and chest were about to explode from all the negative energy building up in me. Trust me when I say that being a mutant freak ain't all it's cracked up to be. I was halfway down the hall, headed for my dorm, when I heard Batchelder's voice echo after me.

"Remember, Del, if no one else ever loves you, I do."

I froze mid-stride as all those feelings of being stalked flooded back. It was a haunting feeling, as if he were always hanging over me, always watching. And as much as I wanted to wheel around and scream "_No,_ _you don't!_" at him, I couldn't. I was suddenly terrified, and I took off at a flat-out run down the halls toward my dorm. This was too much. I couldn't take it anymore; I needed to be up in the air, flying as fast as I could and as high as I could just so I could work off all this nervous energy. When I reached my dorm, I flung myself into my bunk, wincing when I landed on the hard mattress. Batchelder's words echoed over and over in my mind as I buried my face in my pillow and started screaming. Keeping that pillow pressed tightly to my mouth prevented any sound from getting out, and though no one could tell, I was screeching at the top of my lungs. I was out of breath by the time I was done, but I certainly felt better. Well, I felt better until the dorm door swung open and one of the Director's minions walked in, holding my beat-up old windbreaker and backpack. They hadn't patched the hole in the jacket; I figured they wanted it to look realistic. That reminded me that I'd have to think up some lie to tell the Flock when I met up with them again, but I'd think on that en route. I shrugged the windbreaker on before taking my knapsack and opening it. Everything was there: spare pair of jeans, water, granola bars, my Itex-issue credit card . . . But then I noticed that the Bible I'd gotten in San Diego was missing. I glared at the minion, eyes narrow.

"Where's the Bible?" I asked, voice low.

"The Director thought you didn't need it, Twenty-one," he answered.

Oh, she _did_, did she? Well, it just so happens that I don't take squat from the Director, and I certainly am not keen on allowing her to dictate what I do and don't need! I frowned and took a step closer to the minion, my fist clenching and unclenching at my side. He paled a bit, but he didn't move.

"I want that Bible back," I said firmly.

"They've already run it through the incinerator."

No, they hadn't. This guy sucked at lying. I could tell he was fibbing because he got red in the face, and he started to blink faster. Man, what was Itex hiring these days? Out and out wimps and cowards? Or maybe it was just a weaker version of their usual assortment of idiots and imbeciles. I took another step closer until I was right in that guy's face, and I grabbed a hold of his collar.

"I want. That Bible. _Back_," I growled, "or so help me, I will split your skull open like a melon!"

The Bible was back in my backpack in five minutes. I didn't know for the life of me why I wanted it so badly; maybe I just felt like I'd rouse suspicion if I didn't have it when I returned to the cozy little group. Though I could see why the Director would want it taken away from me. After all, it had "Thou shall not kill" right there in plain letters. I figured the other reason I wanted it back was because there _were_ some good stories in there, after all. But once everything was in place, I was escorted to the yard by a couple of guards. The Director met me outside and reiterated my mission, and I just nodded, not really listening; I mean, did I have to? I already knew what I'd been assigned to do. So I just nodded at all the right places before she sent me on my way, and I took off. For the heck of it, I took a running start, snapping out my wings as I leaped into the sky. Within a matter of minutes, I was at ten thousand feet and soaring ever higher, leaving the School in my dust. My backpack was on my shoulder, my windbreaker was zipped up to my neck, hiding my ID tattoo, and I was headed for San Francisco. After a rather short while, I was five miles from the School and already thinking about the Flock. What were they doing? Was Derek still with them? Did they miss me? That last question seriously took me by surprise, and I berated myself for thinking it. Nobody missed me, and that was a fact, even if Batchelder had said . . . what he'd said. I shoved that from my mind again as I tried to keep myself focused on the task at hand. I had things to be doing, places to be going; I couldn't be hindered by messy relationship-centered thoughts. But then I wondered what Iggy was up to even though I promptly followed that with a mental smack to the hand. So I rolled my shoulders back, tilted my wings, and banked, gliding down to a lower altitude to prevent being sucked into a jet's engines. Me oh my, but wouldn't _that_ be fun . . . _not!_ And I just kept flying toward San Francisco, purposefully keeping my mind clear of all questions, all thoughts. But apparently my control on my mind wasn't as strong as I'd thought, because my thoughts kept drifting back to the six kids I was supposed to kill—especially the tall red-haired blind one. I couldn't figure out what it was about him that kept shoving him into my thoughts. Maybe I just felt sorry for him. Yeah, I'd have to somehow let him escape—him and the little dog. But then again, if I didn't spare Total, I could toss that line from _The Wizard of Oz_ in Max's direction: "I'll get you, my pretty, and your little dog, too!" I chuckled darkly to myself as I kept flying onward.


	12. 11: Alone in the Wild Blue Yonder

**A/N:** Derek to _JaxSolo_, Del to me, and everybody else to "Jimmy Pats." Majorly sorry it's taken so long for an update. Hope you like anyway!

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**Chapter Eleven – Alone In the Wild Blue Yonder**

I didn't know how long I'd been flying non-stop, but eventually my body dropped a not so subtle hint for rest and food. My stomach let out this roar so loud I wondered how far it echoed, and as my wings faltered, causing me to lose about ten feet of altitude in a mere few seconds, I started feeling _really_ lightheaded. Trust me when I say that low blood sugar makes for a very ill-feeling bird kid, okay? I probably would've spiraled out of the sky and crashed in a broken-up heap of feathers in the bottom of some rocky gorge if I hadn't had the presence of mind to start scouting out a landing place. Each time I tried to push down with my wings, I wobbled, so I started easing down toward the tree line. Once when I glanced down, a hundred-foot-tall pine tree ratcheted into focus. That seemed as good a place as any to perch for a little while—provided that there were no predatory birds that would not consider enjoying a meal of me to be cannibalistic. So, hoping there would be no such birds, I adjusted my backpack, tucked in my wings, and dove for that tree before I could lose any more stability.

I landed on a high, strong branch a few moments later, feeling weak, trembly, and so very hungry. Thank goodness I had some provisions with me; I guess I could be an honorary Boy Scout—even with the whole gender difference thing— because of my always being prepared and whatnot. So I clung to the branch with my knees, keeping my wings extended for balance, as I shrugged off my backpack. Ravaging around for a moment, I fished out three granola bars, a bottle of water, and two sugar packets—y'know, those little thingies you get at fast-food restaurants with the coffee that tastes like ditch water. I ripped open the first granola bar with my teeth and started chomping down on it as if I hadn't eaten in a week. Sure, I'd only had a little something a few hours ago, but an hour on a bird kid pretty much equals _days_ for normal humans! And I could've eaten an entire pizza at that moment or even another sixteen-ounce steak, but I had to make do, y'know? It wasn't like I could wave my magic wand and a four-course meal would appear in front of me. Anyway, as I polished off the first bar and started just as ravenously on the second one, I dumped the sugar into the water and guzzled some down—anything to get my blood sugar levels back where they needed to be. I didn't want to overload myself, though, so I tossed the third granola bar right back into my backpack. Better to save it for another day. And so, by the time I'd eaten two bars and drunk a bottle of sugar water, I was refreshed, alert, and not quite so shaky. Ahh, the wonders of a little protein and a lot of sugar. Whee! I didn't want to leave my comfy (yeah, _right_) tree branch, though. I sat there, swinging my legs and staring up at the clear blue sky. A hawk or two was swooping lazily, obviously scanning the ground for potential dinner guests. I guessed I wasn't on the menu because they didn't as much as glance my way. Yet I couldn't help but admire them, their beauty, and their flying finesse. They weren't genetic experiments, born to be freaks just because some dudes in lab coats were bored one rainy afternoon and needed something to do. These guys didn't have to worry about surviving another day because they probably owned the whole forest spread out in front of me. And they didn't need to rely on granola bars and sugar water for nutrition, either; all they had to do was wait for a little mouse to scamper across their path and then swoop down, grabbing a hawk-sized bottle of ketchup on the way. Now, if it were me, I'd only grab a bottle of ketchup on the way down if a plate of French fries scurried across my way. But whatever.

I sighed, still looking skyward, watching fluffy white clouds meander past. My thoughts drifted back to the six—seven, including Derek—bird kids who were probably at that very moment having the time of their lives in San Francisco. I highly doubted that they were sitting around going "Gee, I wonder if Del's okay. I sure hope she didn't get captured!" I mean, why should they? They weren't obligated to worry about me. They hadn't even been obligated to let me and Derek join up with them way back when in San Diego. It felt as if I'd met those kids a jillion weeks ago when in reality it'd only been about four days. Time sure can crawl when you wish you were doing something else. And by "something else" I mean that I wished they were already dead, that I was already off living my own life, enjoying the years left to me. And maybe if I were _really_ lucky, I'd find a really good tattoo artist who could get this stupid tracker ink out of my chest. At the thought of that, I rubbed my windbreaker over the spot I knew that tattoo was. My, but wouldn't my little targets be surprised to see my new and rather unwanted decoration? I figured I'd just tell them I'd felt daring. Or something.

A cool breeze ruffled my wing feathers as I sighed again, forcing my mind of the subject of Max and her Flock and attempting to concoct even the shadow of a plan. I was a bigger fan of acting on instinct, on urge, than on a well-thought out _plan_. And, well, if that instinct said "Kill them all _right now_," I'd just have to go by it. "Sorry, kids," I'd say, "but it looks like you were too stupid to see me coming." And then I'd snap their necks, one at a time. I'd drop the obnoxious dog of the edge of a cliff. He'd fall to his death squealing, but I wouldn't care. I'd give the blind one just one look, one glance he'd never see, as if I were truly concerned for him. Who knows; maybe I would be by then. But when it was all over, when all six of them lay dead at my feet, I'd just turn and fly away, mission accomplished. Maybe Derek would come with me. Or maybe six would become seven.

Sighing as I mulled these thoughts over, I shifted my weight on "my" limb a little bit, folding my arms over my chest as I leaned back against the pine's trunk. Sure, the bark was scratchy and a bit sticky, but I liked the roughness. It scratched that spot right between my shoulder blades and ultimately my huge wings—y'know, that spot that's always impossible to reach when it itches. The longer I sat there, the less I wanted to get airborne again, and the less I wanted to be airborne, the sleepier I go. Apparently I'd been on a sugar high and was now crashing. So I did the only thing logical at the time: I actually said "What the heck" and closed my eyes.

And yet, as soon as my eyes closed, images started flashing across the backs of my eyelids. I saw myself, battered, beaten bloody and nearly senseless, barely able to get up from the ground. One of my wings was torn and hanging limply against my back as blood dripped off the tips of the feathers, staining grass that was cut so short I couldn't _not_ know where it was. I saw myself getting kicked around by those awful Eraser executioners, their yellow teeth snapping at me as they cackled evilly. For some reason, I couldn't fight back. It was as if . . . as if I _wouldn't_ fight back. And I saw the Director standing there, watching with amusement . . . and laughing. Laughing at _me_. Telling me I was a fool, that I was worthless, that I'd just been one huge mistake and she had only been trying to save the company's backside by making me an assassin . . . My eyes flew open as I let out an ear-splitting shriek of fright. My scream echoed off the trees for miles, and I nearly fell off the pine limb, clutching my chest. My heart was pounding so fast that I thought I'd have a heart attack—but only if that thumping little organ didn't leap through my chest wall first. It took me a good ten minutes to get calmed down to the point where I'd remembered that I was dozing off, so I decided this was just a nasty dream made worse by my own paranoia. But then . . . then I realized that I, Project Delilah, had not one fear but _two_. You'll remember that my biggest fear is dying. Now I realized I was also afraid of being worthless, unimportant, uncared-for. Afraid of being kicked around like common trash. _Rejected._

I buried my face in my hands as I let out an almost miserable groan before I snapped my wings out and shot skyward. I had to get moving again; sitting still for too long was liable to make me stir-crazy. And, well, I had so much adrenaline pumping through my body that flying was the only way I could think of working it off. As I adjusted my backpack between down strokes, I couldn't help but wonder if Derek, the only other Mark Two avian-human hybrid I knew, ever felt like that—y'know . . . _worthless_. Maybe this was an incident restricted to me; after all, I'd been practically raised by a psychopath. There're bound to be some repercussions when your "mom" is a practical Nazi—and I don't mean a soup Nazi like on that TV show. I mean a real, live one: one whose primary goal in life is to eliminate all "inferiors" so that the world may be prepared for the arrival and survival of a "master race." What, you mean you haven't heard of the By-Half Plan?! Okay, so the thing has had some glitches, but they're working on it. Trust me when I say that if they ever bring it to pass, hiding under a rock might not be such a bad idea.

_Anyway_, I wondered if Derek ever felt despised, rejected, or abandoned. Maybe he didn't since he'd had Batchelder on his side (Mr. "If Nobody Else Loves You, Del, I Do," if you'll recall. Ooh, that still gave me the creeps). It'd be, um . . . well . . . _nice_ if somebody could relate to what I felt. And what's ironic is that I've always been told that I had _no_ emotions. So much for that. But as I was saying, it'd be kinda neat if someone understood me. I mean, Iggy did. Sort of. A little. But he wasn't exactly a Mark Two made to be more of a freak than the rest of 'em, now was he? And as I recall, he's had something resembling a family pretty much all his life. I haven't. Derek hasn't either. Maybe I'd have to talk to him just as soon as I met up with them all. Nobody ever said that half-deaf Mark Twos aren't allowed to want confidants. Yet I found that want to be odd for me, knowing who I was and what my purpose on this planet was—unless what Batchelder had said was true. But that's another thought for another time.

Once I was up in the air and flying as fast as I could, I started feeling a whole lot better. I had the wind in my hair and the open sky before me, so technically I was doing fine. Sure, I had a few more hours before I hit San Francisco and only about three more granola bars, all of which could be wolfed down in an instant if I got hungry enough. But that didn't matter. Flying calmed my nerves, and the consistent rhythm of flapping my wings seemed to work out every kink in my body. Eventually, it got to a point where flying was almost euphoric: my eyes were closed as I flew steadily along, banking and diving whenever I felt like it. Sure, the Director was probably having a cow if she were sitting at some stupid computer and tracking my flight patterns, but when was the last time you saw me care about what she thinks? Exactly. But oh, man, how _good_ it felt to be up there in the clear blue sky, flying higher than the trees were tall. And what I wouldn't have given for an iPod . . . but, alas, I'm just a poor bird kid without even an allowance to call my own. _Sigh._ Nevertheless, I was having a blast flying by myself, but you'll never catch me admitting that to someone else. And if _you_ ever tell Max and her gang, I'll deny everything. Ahem.

Anyway, I flew steady for a while as I grabbed my ski cap and sunglasses out of my backpack, tugging both items on before spreading my beautiful wings wider and shooting higher into the sky. I must've been at nearly fifty-k feet before I started getting winded, at what point I tucked my wings in and let myself plummet back down toward the ground. Just before I smacked into a boulder, out shot my wings, carrying me up again. Nobody said I wasn't good at _flying_; it's _landing_ that's iffy for me. I turned a loop-de-loop before cruising casually along, and after a minute, I saw an eagle sitting in the top of a spruce, eyeing me cautiously. I don't know what was getting into me because this huge grin crested on my face as I swooped dangerously close to the eagle, startling it into screeching. Then I peeled away, laughing.

"YOU'RE NOT THE ONLY ONE WHO OWNS THE SKIES!" I shouted jubilantly at that huge bird of prey as I banked and twisted until I had done something of a barrel roll.

Aw, man. It was awesome. And with me, _everything_ needed to be awesome. After all, I was an assassin on a mission who also had only four years to live. But I didn't think on that too much; I was having too much fun with this flying thing. Nearby, that eagle let out a loud, shrieking _kreeeee_ as it took to the air, huge wings flapping just as powerfully as mine; I guess it wanted to challenge that little declaration of mine and prove that winged bipeds didn't scare it. I chuckled to myself as I cruised along, eyes closed, but then there was this shock in my temple. Well, _crap_.

_Whaddaya want?_ I questioned silently, still coasting merrily.

_Get your mind back on your assignment, Delilah,_ the Director warned me. _You do _not_ have time for such frivolous activities._

Now, normally, I'd grumble under my breath and get right back to planning out my mission, but I was feeling so . . . _good_, so on top of the world, that I didn't. I guessed it was the cool wind whipping through my hair. Breezes have that effect on people.

_Y'know what, Director?_ I shot back, still just as calm as could be. _Go to hell._

If I'd said that to her face, she would've gotten all angry-looking and probably would've fed me to the werewolves. But, well, I _hadn't_ said it to her face, so the connection just clicked off with a nasty shock. I didn't let it bother me, though, because I could still hear that eagle; he was flying along about thirty feet away from me and maybe ten feet down. And lemme tell ya somethin': I realized why the bald eagle is the symbol of freedom. Oh yeah.

Eventually, I got too far out of range for the eagle to follow, so he peeled away, screeching something that sounded either like "Goodbye, strange winged human. Maybe you'll come back someday" or "Good riddance!" My inner cynic decided it was the latter, and that frustrated me that I should be so horribly . . . pessimistic. But then again, that was just how I was. I'm strange like that. So I watched as the eagle settled in the top of a huge pine as I cruised on by. Once I was past and the skies were mine alone again, I poured some more speed into my wings, topping upwards of . . . oh . . . seventy miles an hour, maybe more. And yes, I was still headed for San Francisco. But no, I still had no plan. I neither needed nor wanted one. I _was_ still capable of this assignment, after all. And I _was_ still planning on carrying it out unless something got in my way—like, say, if I got killed. Yet as I flew ever onward, I couldn't help but wish that I had someone to talk to. Somebody who could understand me. Derek, perhaps? He'd be a good choice; after all, he _was_ another Mark Two. _And_ he'd been kicked around in training, as had I, only not quite as badly. Or . . . hm. I really wouldn't have minded Iggy's company, either. He was relatively quiet and knew what it was like to have endured a sucky life. For some reason, the thought of sparing him came up again, and I mulled it over for a long time. What would I gain? Next to nothing, really. A blind kid who was a year older than me and who probably wouldn't talk to me anyway since I'd've killed the rest of his family by then. But . . . well . . . I'd have a friend. I'd have two if Derek came with me, too. I wouldn't be alone anymore. I'd have comrades-in-arms, people who'd watch out for me and say to me "I've got your back." Hell, I could have my very own flock if I wanted one! Then again, that would lower me to Max's level, and Mark Twos were naturally supposed to be superior to the Mark Ones. Are you sensing a conflict here? I know I am. And you thought _your_ adolescence was difficult . . . Try seeing the teen years through my eyes, and, trust me, you'll get a shock. You kids who are completely human think you've got it so hard, what with the chores, homework, and curfews, but you ain't got an expiration date set to go off in four years _or_ a tattoo that reports your every move to some very nasty people etched across your chest! Get the picture? Good. Now, where was I . . . Right, having my own flock. It wouldn't have to be anything big, maybe three or four members, me included. Maybe just three. Just the two people I felt like I could trust the most even though I didn't trust anyone. I was mulling over how I'd convince Iggy to be my friend even after I killed off Max and all the rest when another shock stabbed me in the temple. I rolled my eyes.

"I know, I know," I muttered aloud. "Get my mind back on my assignment. Sheesh, you don't need to rub it in . . ."

_Good. So long as you understand._

And then it went silent. I grumbled under my breath as I rubbed my forehead, feeling a killer headache rather quickly supplanting my previous good mood. Seriously, how impatient could one woman be?! And she obviously wasn't thoughtful, either, because she'd called me enough to trigger a massive headache. My mood rapidly turning sour, I squeezed my eyes shut against the sunlight even though I was wearing a pair of nice, expensive, UV-resistant sunglasses. Hey, whaddaya know—all it takes to get me back to my normal level of sarcasm, cynicism, and selfishness is one mean headache. So I continued flying toward my ultimate objective, no longer cheerful and performing midair maneuvers. I just flew.


	13. 12: San Francisco

**A/N:** Derek to _JaxSolo_, Del to me, everybody else to "Jimmy Pats" (ahem, James Patterson). New chappie YAY! (New _Jorad_ comin' as soon as I can get it written, too.)

* * *

**Chapter Twelve – San Francisco**

When I finally sailed over San Francisco Bay what felt like a million hours later, I was nearly ready to pass out. Once again, I'd done the stupid thing and hadn't taken a snack break, so I was like to faint from exhaustion and low blood sugar. But I'll admit, my panoramic view of the city was absolutely gorgeous. I just couldn't really concentrate on it until I got food in my stomach. So my itinerary was this: get food, find Flock, admire San Francisco. In that order. It was dusk, anyway, so I had no problem landing undetected. I just found an empty dock and set down, careful not to fall into the water. Then I shoved my hands in my windbreaker pockets and blended in with the rest of the people of San Francisco—the people that had no wings, I might add. Nobody even noticed I was there; obviously the average American can't see past the end of their own nose. So I merged with the folks on the streets, just barely avoiding getting run over by a herd of teenaged girls with cell phones permanently attached to their ears.

"Oh, I'm sorry!" I called after them sarcastically, "I must've not been looking where I was going!"

One of those girls turned and stared at me, mouthed "What?" and looked generally confused. I rolled my eyes and kept going. Morons. _Clueless_ morons. Not to mention inconsiderate. I decided right then and there that I absolutely _loathed_ it when people had cell phones super-glued to their heads; it's a disability resulting in lack of concentration and decreased observation skills. And, well, it makes the sufferer suddenly lose sight of the sidewalk, like, two feet in front of them. So I just hunched my shoulders forward, adjusted my backpack, and kept walking down the street, trying not to look like the hick in the big city. Yet I had this momentary thought of "Hey, I wonder if I'll get to go sightseeing, too." Eh, I'd think on that later. Like . . . _way_ later.

My head suddenly jerked up as my stomach grumbled and a meaty, delicious scent wafted across my path. Okay, so I'd think about sightseeing way, _way_ later. I turned, and as I did, my gaze fell on this cute little burger joint. And, damn, did it smell _good_ . . . My stomach roared louder, and I didn't even question it as I altered course and headed right for the door. The place was jam-packed when I entered, but I was so hungry that I didn't care. So I ordered a burger, two orders of fries, and this huge chocolate milkshake that would make a conscientious dieter run away screaming. The waiter didn't seem to care that I, a rather ordinary-looking teenager, had ordered that much food, and for that I was grateful. But, well, I was too hungry to care what people thought, anyway. And as soon as I bit into that burger . . . Oh, man. I swear, my eyes crossed. It was _soooo_ good that I could barely stand it. The bun was warm and soft, and the meat itself—Lord have mercy—was perfectly crispy around the edges. I thought I'd die of happiness, and I wolfed that thing down in thirty seconds, no lie. Then I stuffed my face with fries until I was having trouble breathing. And all this while trying _not_ to be obvious. I think I succeeded because no one as much as glanced my way. After the first three fistfuls of fries, I got creative—y'know, dipping them in my milkshake, no ketchup, covered completely in ketchup . . . Stuff like that. Hey, don't look at me! Strange things happen when seventeen-year-old bird kids don't eat for a while! But if you're wondering, yes, I _did_ end up eating both plates of fries. Hunger has odd effects on me, I've noticed. The milkshake was gone equally fast, I might add.

In all, I ended up finishing in about . . . oh . . . ten minutes. I paid with my handy-dandy card and skedaddled, not really wanting to leave the haven of divine-smelling food but not exactly feeling comfortable about being crammed in there with all those people. So I stepped out the door and back onto the sidewalks, headed for . . . well, anywhere, really. It was getting dark super-quick, not to mention late. I'd been flying all day anyway, so I was exhausted. And so, I wandered a good while, wishing I had a map. I must've walked for about an hour, give or take a few minutes, because eventually I ended up on the Golden Gate Bridge. Cars were zooming along, but that was fine. I put my back against one of the supports and slid down, facing the bay. In comparison to this, my bunk back at the School was a featherbed, but I'd rather sleep here than on a park bench. No one could see me because it was dark and I'd picked a nice spot out of the way of any streetlights, so I folded my arms over and tucked my chin into my chest, content to wait until morning to begin my hunt. And yet . . . as I slept . . . I had another of those dreams.

This time, it was of Derek. _They_ were torturing him, those Itex jerks. He was beaten until he was black and blue, and blood was running down his face . . . Batchelder was there, but he wasn't doing anything. Two of the Director's minions had him at bay with handguns, and all he could do was gaze concernedly at Derek. Never had I felt as horrible for Derek as I did while I was dreaming, what with seeing the Director looming over him, giving every order for his torture. Then she mentioned "psychosis" and how Derek was to undergo it in a matter of minutes. In a flurry of motion, the torture ended abruptly. Derek sagged to the floor, quite the bloody, beaten mess. His wings looked like they might just fall off, they were so battered. The Director nudged him with the toe of her high-heel shoe. He didn't move.

When I awoke gasping (and swearing, actually), it was morning. The sun was rising over San Francisco Bay and cars were still clogging up the bridge—rush hour, obviously. Of course, I dunno why it's called "rush hour" if the cars move so darn slowly. Anyway, in typical bird kid fashion, I was already hungry, so I pushed myself up from my rather uncomfortable position and started heading back toward the city. Today would be the day I'd find them, I mused. Today would be the day I'd start working toward my ultimate objective. Of course, my dream still startled me; where were these nightmares coming from? First I'd dreamed of me, then of Derek, and each time one of us was beaten senseless. I either had a vivid imagination or I'd turned into some lunatic who could predict the future. If _that_ were the case, then were Derek and I _ever_ gonna be in trouble. Yet I shoved that disturbing thought from my mind, because if there's one thing I am, it's queen of procrastination when it comes to mulling things over. And, well, I was still under the command of hunger pangs, so first things first.

I wound up in a little café not too far from the bridge. The menu didn't contain anything that made me say "_Yes_, I want to eat _that_!" so I ordered a tall latte even though I knew fully that caffeine on an empty stomach is not necessarily a good thing. It was a quiet sort of place with book-reading, espresso-drinking intellectual types hanging out quietly in their corners. A college-age boy was chewing on a bagel, but I ended up swearing to _never_ eat a bagel in my life because the way he was gnawing on it, like a cow chewing her cud, completely turned me off to the thought that bagels could ever be tasty. But then a lovely blueberry muffin caught my eye, so I got one of those to go with my latte.

I was just about to bite into my muffin when my stomach grumbled so loudly I feared everybody else in the café heard me. My face turned bright red—and this I know because I felt it grow hot—but nobody as much as looked at my corner table. I thought I was in the clear until I heard voices coming from the table behind me.

"Dude, seriously . . ."

"Hey, look, that wasn't me, I swear! I did everything I could to head it off at the pass this time!"

"Uh huh, _sure_ . . ."

My breath caught in my chest as my backbone straightened. I froze mid-bite as I realized I recognized those voices. Who did I know whose stomach was prone to growling so loud that he'd get teased over it? Exactly. Oh, man, wouldn't _that_ be wonderful if I didn't have to hunt high and low . . . Cautiously, not wanting my hopes to be dashed, I turned, still nibbling on my muffin as I stole a glance at the table behind me. I almost choked on a blueberry when I saw who was sitting there. Holy _crap_, my day was going well! Max's back was to me, but Derek's wasn't. He was sipping at what looked like a macchiato, which he nearly spewed across the table as soon as he lifted his gaze and his eyes met mine. I just gave a little half-wave, and his eyes were as wide as saucers with surprise. Nudge asked him what was wrong, but when he didn't answer, little Angel, with those innocent blue eyes of hers, looked right up at me. Immediately, my mental shields went into place, and about two seconds later, a big, bright smile crested on her face.

"It's Del!" she announced to the others, all of whom wheeled around to face me. I waved.

"Hey, all."

Twenty milliseconds later, Nudge had thrown her arms around my neck and was squeezing. Hard. I was clawing at her but was unable to peel her off. Remind me to tell God thanks for oxygen.

"Omigosh, you're _alive_!" Nudge squealed, hugging me. "You're okay! You're _alive_! Omigosh, you're _here_! We were so worried about you!"

"Nudge . . ." I forced out, beginning to see black spots dancing in front of my eyes, "choking . . . not breathing . . ."

Instantly, air rushed into my lungs, filling my air sacs and making me a whole lot less lightheaded as Nudge backed away, smiling apologetically. Angel came over and hugged me, though a good deal gentler, for which I was grateful.

"You're okay," she breathed, sounded relieved.

"Yeah, kiddo, I'm fine," I answered. "Right at one-ten percent."

Already I was starting to make up a story about how I ended up evading a squad of Flyboys so I could get to San Francisco. Nudge still looked exuberant; Derek was eyeing me suspiciously; Max's expression was unreadable, as was Iggy's (though I thought I sensed a bit of relief); Fang had his hands on the laptop's keyboard even though he was quietly watching me; and the Gasman was making his way over to hug me, too. I got the feeling that I'd have to explain things to Derek just as soon as I could. Angel gave me another hug, and I patted her shoulder before Nudge tapped my left shoulder.

"Were you listening to me?" she asked, sounding faintly impatient.

Since she'd tapped me on my _left_ shoulder, she'd been talking in that ear for a good minute and a half. No, I hadn't been listening, primarily because I couldn't _hear_. I just looked apologetic as I shrugged.

"Sorry."

"The way you were ignoring her," Derek said calmly, "it seemed like you're deaf or something."

At that, I cringed visibly. Angel's wide eyes went wider as I looked away; I hadn't thought they'd ever need to know. She reached over and snapped her fingers beside my left ear, and since I wasn't watching, I didn't react. Nudge's jaw dropped.

"Oh, Del . . ." she said. "I'm so sorry . . . I didn't know . . ."

"Nah, it's okay," I said, waving her off. "Just deaf in that ear, is all. Other one still works fine."

"How'd it happen?" Iggy asked me gently as I realized _Hey, we have something in common because of this_. Max was watching me curiously as I answered.

"It was . . . uh . . . at the School. One day they ran a hearing test too hard in that ear. The decibels went too high and broke my eardrum. Haven't heard anything with it since."

"So they screwed you over, too." Iggy's voice, though quiet, was pained. I nodded.

"Yeah."

I glanced down at my feet for a minute, and I don't really know why I did. Maybe it added realism to the sudden revelation that I was half-deaf. Or maybe I actually felt . . . imperfect. Like the freak I knew I was. As if I had convinced myself that I was a defective piece of trash. After a moment of silence, Max spoke.

"Well, ask her again, Nudge."

I glanced up at Nudge, making sure to pay attention and to turn my good ear to her. She took a breath and nodded to Max before looking at me. I figured she was trying _very_ hard to speak slowly and clearly, but she didn't have to. All she would've needed to do was talk near my right ear.

"Okay, so, I asked how you're feelin' and how you escaped since those Flyboys were, like, right on you. You said you'd get away before they got a chance to kidnap you, but I think if you had, you would've bled to death after a couple hours or so. So what happened? Did somebody, like, come and rescue you? A guardian angel?"

Here she paused, looking curiously at me. I shrugged nonchalantly when in reality I was struggling to concoct a brilliant story. After about . . . oh . . . one and a half seconds, I just relaxed my mind and let my creativity flow.

"Nah, no guardian angel," I said, making this complete _lie_ as absolutely genuine as possible. I put this look on my face that made it seem as if I were thinking back over that day. "Those machines were about to nab me, though. But then outta nowhere, there was this gunshot, and they dropped like rocks. Next thing I know, this camper and his wife were puttin' me in their pickup truck. I don't remember a whole lot . . . I mean, I was almost passed out anyway. But I do remember there being a Forest Service chopper . . . I think they took me to the nearest ranger station and I ended up being airlifted to the closest ER. I dunno when it was, but when I woke up, I was in a hospital bed feelin' pretty good, and that couple was comin' in to check on me. Stayed with 'em a couple days before flying out here to find you guys. Arrived last night, and I'm feelin' fine, so thanks for asking, Nudge."

I noticed that as I finished retelling my story, which, may I remind you, bore no truth whatsoever but _sounded_ good, Max and Fang exchanged this strange little glance. It was as if they didn't trust me. As if they knew I'd been lying. Max whispered something to Angel, who looked thoughtful a moment before shaking her head. After that, Max relaxed considerably. Yep. She _had_ thought I'd been lying.

"And they didn't mind the wings?" she asked me. I shook my head.

"Nope. They liked 'em. He was a big sci-fi nut; I guess that's why he thought they were cool."

Aw, man, lookit me go! My creative juices were _really_ flowing; I felt as though I could keep this ruse up all day!

"That's _awesome_," Gazzy said. "Wish more folks thought like that."

"Like what?" I asked, even though I was pretty sure I already knew.

"Y'know, like the wings are cool. Like we're . . . I dunno . . . superheroes or something. _That_ would be great if we were!"

I nodded and smiled at him before glancing around. If there was one Flock member I didn't see, it was that little talking mutt. Thank goodness. Yet I noticed that Derek's gaze was latched firmly onto me; I knew _he_ hadn't believed my story. Oh, well. I'd have to share the truth with him just as soon as I could.

"So you got patched up okay?" he asked me, and I looked right at him, nodding.

"Sure did. Say, where'd the dog go?"

"Here," a sleepy voice answered from underneath Iggy's chair as Total lifted his furry black head, looking up at me. "Thanks for interrupting a nice nap."

Y'know, for a dog, he sure had a grip on sarcasm. Yet I glanced over my shoulder when I saw Max looking in the direction of the cashier, and I had this moment of "Oh, crap, we're doomed. Now somebody else knows the dog talks." Yet Max handled it like a pro, glaring condescendingly at Gazzy.

"I _told_ you not to go practicing your ventriloquism in public!"

Gazzy fell right into line, beaming innocently at her and shrugging apologetically. The cashier seemed to accept that (at least, she sighed and rolled her eyes) and went back to making a latte for her waiting customer. Nudge and Iggy looked like they were about to burst out laughing if they got the chance, and even the Laptop King (ha, I'm _so_ gonna have to call him that more often) looked amused. Like, amused enough to crack a teensy grin. Ah, so there _was_ a human under that floppy dark hair. I covered my mouth to hide a smirk, and as soon as the cashier vanished into the back room for a minute, we pretty much lost it. Nudge was nearly in hysterics, and it looked as if Derek might choke on his macchiato. The exclamations usual to such an occasion were exchanged: "Oh, man, did you _see_ the look on her face?!" "She was about to _freak_!" And so on. Yet as our laughing fit dwindled, Total pushed himself up, shook out his fur, and trotted over to me, jumping up into my lap and licking my cheek. I grimaced and wiped it off, noting that Max looked sympathetic; obviously she didn't like soggy dog kisses either. But Total stayed on my lap, wagging his tail and letting his tongue loll out, so I patted his back, stroking his fur for a little while. I've gotta admit, it was . . . kinda nice to be accepted completely like that—I guess that's why they say dogs are man's best friends. Somebody's chair scraped across the café floor, but I was looking down at Total and so didn't notice whose chair it was. The next second, there was a hand on my side, underneath my windbreaker, right where I'd been shot. I jumped and almost swore, but then I saw it was Iggy. Talk about uncomfortable.

"Sorry," he said. "Just checkin' on how well they patched you up."

"'S all right . . ." I muttered. Can anybody say _awkwaaaaaaaaaaaard_?

After a minute, he went "Hm" and tactfully moved his hand. I gratefully clamped my windbreaker back down around my side. No way was he _ever_ gonna sneak up on me again!

"No scar," he informed the others, acting as if it were this huge discovery. He frowned. "Fang, dude, even _you_ had scars after that _incident_ in Virginia."

"I don't see how it's a big deal," I said, noting the way Max's brows furrowed even as my stomach turned a somersault. No doubt I had no scars because the Director wanted to keep me "perfect." But just wait until they saw the claw marks on my forearms. "I had a while to recover."

"Yeah, well, just seems a little weird." He shrugged before turning in my direction, and I swear he knew exactly where I was. "And Del, you're too pale. Try some Cali sun."

My eyes went wide as my jaw dropped, and I looked helplessly at Max. When in doubt, consult the Robin Hood-esque leader. She chuckled.

"Oh. Ah, don't worry about it, Del. Just a little thing we discovered he can do."

"What _is_ this 'little thing'?" I asked, folding my arms over my chest and making sure my gaze followed Iggy right back to his chair.

"He can sense colors!" Nudge cheerily murmured to me before bounding back to her own spot.

Okay, I about fell out of my chair at that. Total scratched behind his ear and sighed as if he'd heard _this_ a million times already. Derek and I exchanged a look that pretty much translated to "Well, ain't _that_ somethin'?" Iggy just shrugged.

"Well, it's as close to actually _seeing_ as I can get, so I like it well enough."

"I don't blame ya," I replied before looking at Max. Even as I made eye contact with her, thoughts started running through my mind—thoughts about how I'd _eliminate_ her first. "So, any plans?"

"Well, Fang's been researching tourist attractions," she replied. "And we've spent what, twenty bucks on those disposable cameras for Nudge, not counting processing?"

"I thought we were headed for Golden Gate Park," Fang muttered, glancing up. Nudge and Angel's faces lit up immediately.

"Ooh, can we?" Nudge asked, liable to start bouncing off the walls. "And maybe we can go see the bridge!"

"We've seen the bridge three times already," Max reminded her, sounding like what I figured an exhausted mom would sound like.

"But it's so _pretty_," Angel added softly, blue eyes innocent.

About two seconds later, it was decided that we were headed for the park and, yes, we _could_ go see the bridge. Again. This would be my second time, counting how I'd _slept_ on it. Not too comfy, lemme tell ya. Anyway, led by a band of three merry youngsters (even though Nudge was, like, two years younger than me and Derek) and a chipper Scottie, we all left that little café, headed back toward Golden Gate Park. I sort of hung back from the others, and after a moment, Derek dropped back to my side—my right side, I noted. Someone had been learning. Yet he had this look on his face, and I recognized it as the expression he got whenever he and I were about to talk—which hadn't been much in the short time we'd known each other. But, trust me, I'm good at reading expressions and body language.

"Y'know," he said finally, voice low, "for a kid as sarcastic as you, you _suck_ at lying."

I scoffed. Oh, so _that_ was what this was about, eh? He'd been able to tell, had he? I glanced at him, my hands in my pockets.

"Obvious much?" I asked.

"Like hell," he replied. "Seriously, Del. A camper and his wife?"

I chuckled under my breath as he raised his brows in a "You've _got_ to be kidding me" sort of way. I was about to come back with a witty retort when he glanced up to make sure none of the others were in earshot before turning back to me.

"Look," he said, voice lower this time. "It's obvious you didn't spend the last, I dunno, four days with some camper and his missus. And you _obviously_ didn't get captured and killed, so where were you for _real_?"

I sighed and rubbed the back of my neck as I watched my feet. Well, I hadn't expected to keep a secret for long, and it wasn't as if I were trying to hide things from Derek . . . I mean, he and I were mostly in this together. I just didn't want those targets of mine to know anything. Yet I had the strange feeling that Max was coming dangerously close to figuring me out. I hunched my shoulders forward and glanced at Derek.

"Where do you think I was?" was all I said.

His brows furrowed for maybe thirty seconds before his eyes widened momentarily. At that point, I realized that he'd figured it out. To be honest, it'd taken less time than I'd anticipated.

"The School?"

I nodded.

"Yep."

"Why?"

"Plan Martyrdom is why."

"What the hell is _that_?"

I sighed and shifted my weight momentarily, glancing up to make sure nobody else had heard. Then I looked Derek right in the eye.

"Things weren't going as planned. Plan Martyrdom is what you witnessed the other day. It's this . . . well, _plan_ that sends the 'bots after _me_ instead of _them_. So I got shot 'saving their lives' and hauled right back in to build plan B. It's designed to give me a chance to get my act together without drawing too much weird attention. I had to do it."

Derek was silent for a long time as we walked along. We didn't look at each other for a while, but after a moment, he glanced over at me.

"You don't _have_ to do this, you know."

"Do what?" I asked, even though I already knew.

"_This._ Your assignment. You don't _have_ to kill them, Del."

I sighed thinly. Never in a year had I anticipated those words coming out of his mouth. Frankly, I wanted to beat him up for that sentence because he had _no_ idea how important this was to me. Either they died and I survived, or it was the other way around. I couldn't have it both ways. I looked Derek right in the eye again.

"I have no choice," I said, my voice low, firm, and quivering with suppressed anger.

"You _do_ have a choice. Tell that witch to go to hell and just quit. It's not so bad."

"For God's sake, Derek!" I hissed. "You're beginning to sound just like Batchelder! And heaven knows he and I have had _enough_ chummy chats lately."

As I said that, I remembered what he'd said to me in that lab back at the School, how he'd love me if nobody else ever did. My fists clenched into tight little balls at my sides; I clenched them so hard that my knuckles turned white and began to cramp. Derek put a hand on my arm, but I batted it away.

"Del . . ."

"No! You don't understand, Derek. You don't understand this _at all_. This isn't just a choice between good or evil. This is a choice between _life and death_. You see, if I screw this up, it ain't some sissy scientist that's gonna pay the price. It's _me_. If this mission goes to heck, the mistake is gonna be paid for by _my_ blood, by _my_ life!"

Derek looked . . . stunned, really. Or maybe a bit disbelieving. I didn't care. Anger, hate, fear . . . all of it was bubbling up inside me again, making my guts turn inside-out. I started to shake as I leveled a hard glare on Derek, my eyes flashing furiously as I kept hissing at him.

"If those kids live, _I die_! I'd rather _live_ and have a chance! They've had theirs! They've had an entire _life_! I haven't! The way I've had the consequences of failing told to me my whole freakin' life was 'We break it, we cry; you break it, you _die_."

Derek tried to say something, but I kept ranting, almost drowning under the sudden wave of all my worst fears. My nightmares came flooding back, as did all the times I _had_ been kicked around, _had_ been treated like trash, _had_ been ignored. For once, I wanted a real life! Max had something I didn't, and I wanted it, so the best way to make myself feel better was to take what she had from her so _I_ could have it. And what she had was _freedom_.

"This isn't _fair_, Derek!" I snapped, my voice still low and angrily hissing. I felt as though I were rapidly approaching my breaking point. "In fact, it _sucks_! All my life, I've known that if I screwed up this mission, I'd be . . . 'retired.' And now . . . now I don't know _what_ I want! No, I do. I want to be _free_. I want to be _important_. To fit in. To be special to . . . _somebody_! I, for one, have never been special, or loved, or . . . or . . . anything! Those kids had Batchelder! I have _nobody_! _Nobody_ cares about what happens to me because I'm just a mutant freak-slash-assassin who is also half-deaf!"

By that time, I could barely breathe. My face felt as though it were on fire, I was so angry. And yet, so many other feelings raged through me. I wondered if this was how adolescence was for normal kids. I wondered if they had mood swings like I did. But those feelings . . . I felt tired. Cold. _Cheated._ I could've been something more if those scientists had just left me alone and put me in my mother's womb to grow up _normal_. I could've had brothers, sisters, a big golden retriever on the front lawn . . . Right now, I could be laughing with my best friends at the Starbucks in the nearest mall. We could be talking about all the cute guys at school. I could be planning for senior prom next year. I would have a _life_. I would be _normal_. A _real_ person. Sure, I wouldn't have my wings, but would it matter? If I'd been born naturally and not in a lab, I wouldn't have even known what it was like to fly. It wouldn't make a difference because I never would've known. But I'd have a family. I'd be _loved_. Important. _Not_ rejected. The words that lady in San Diego had spoken came back: _"E__ven if you feel like no one else cares about you, there's Someone who does."_ Someone with a capital _s_ . . . Did she mean God? I wondered. And then there was what Batchelder had told me: _"Remember, Del, if no one else ever loves you, I do."_ Okay, so I could count on God and Batchelder to care about me. And, frankly, Batchelder scared me more than God did. Then the words from the Bible: _"Thou shall not kill."_ I immediately got into a mental arguing match with those words.

_I _have_ to._

_Thou shall not kill._

_It's the only way I'll survive!_

_Thou shall _not_ kill_.

_But I _must_!_

_Thou shall _not.

I'll_ die if I don't!_

_Thou shall _not_._

_But—_

_Shall not._

_I—_

SHALL NOT.

With a groan, I buried my face in my hands while we still walked along. It _hurt_ to be at such an impasse. On the one hand, I could kill the Flock and run away to freedom, and on the other hand, I could spare _them_ and risk losing _my_ life. Or I could spare them and run as fast as I could away from the Director, hoping to evade her wrath before it caught up with me. It was just _so_ hard . . . The easiest way would be to kill the others and get the hell out of there, but I couldn't shake the nagging feeling of "it'd be wrong." I groaned again, more softly this time, and Derek reached over and took my shoulder.

"Del?"

"Uh?"

"You okay in there?"

"I dunno, Derek. I really don't."

He didn't say anything else for a minute. I looked up at him, feeling . . . helpless. Vulnerable. _Scared._ He must've noticed because he reached down and grabbed my hand, giving it a squeeze.

"I know how you feel," he said gently, and I nearly keeled over with shock. After all, he didn't normally treat me so nicely. To him, I was just a stuck-up assassin who was a pain in the—well, never mind. "When Jeb left, getting them out . . . I felt just as cheated, as alone. Then I was subjected to an _Eraser_ trainer for two years. TWO years! And that was long before I met you."

I bit my lip, fighting down tears with everything I had. It looked as if I'd been wrong. I thought I hadn't needed a sidekick, but maybe I did. I guess but I _had_ been right in thinking that Derek might understand me. He sighed and looked right at me, his eyes locking with mine.

"I know you're important," he went on. "I know you matter. I know you want more. Everyone does. We've got that chance now; we've got a place to be a part of something! Don't worry about her. We'll outthink her. Over and over until we're sick and tired enough that we go take her out ourselves. And then, we really will be free."

That sounded so good that I wanted it with every fiber of my being—every fiber I'd worked so hard to build up so I wouldn't ever break down. So I'd always be strong. But . . . I just wanted to be free. To not worry about how I would stay alive from one minute to the next. But I couldn't have that. Not yet. Not . . . not for a while yet. Not too long ago, I had it all decided that I would kill the Flock and go on my merry way. Now . . . now I wasn't sure. I didn't know _what_ I'd do. And, well, I didn't know how to respond to Derek's little ultimatum, either. So I just offered one slow nod and a half-hearted attempt at a wobbly sideways smile. I was just about to say "Thanks," too, but Nudge yelled for us to hurry up or else we'd "never" get to the park. So I tugged my hand out of Derek's and jogged on ahead, trying to get myself back under control. This was _way_ too much to think about at one time.

To save a lot of needless description, we _did_ make it to Golden Gate Park, and we _did_ see the bridge. Again. Nudge got another dozen pictures of it from all angles, and for the most part, I stared at the water, trying to get my thoughts in order. It didn't work, and I ended up getting sort of snow blind. But before I knew it, it was nighttime again, and we were heading away from the bridge and back into the park. We came to a halt under a nice stand of trees, far away from any sidewalks or street lights, and that was when Max and her crew dropped their backpacks into a heap and settled down in a semi-circle. She looked up at Derek and me before motioning us to join the group. Instead, we took up posts with our backs against huge oak trees.

"Home sweet park," Max muttered as she rummaged through her backpack. Gazzy sighed.

"It'd be nice if we could build a fire," he said. "Y'know, for s'mores?"

"Ooh, s'mores would be _great_," Nudge sighed, sounding a bit drowsy as she tucked her third disposable camera of the day safely into her backpack.

Angel was already sound asleep, curled up into a little ball next to Max with Total in her arms. Fang, who didn't talk to me much and probably never would, was doing a final email check or something. Iggy's eyes were only half-open; I figured it wouldn't be long before he was out. And me? Well, it'd been a long day. I was exhausted. I crawled over a little closer to Derek and flopped down on my stomach next to him. He glanced at me.

"You doin' okay?" he asked me. I shrugged.

"About as well as any other confused, tormented bird kid," I sighed, not quite feeling up to my usual level of sarcasm but hearing it slip out anyway.

Derek chucked dryly and crossed his arms over his chest. I saw his gaze go upward, past the tree limbs and to the stars shining high above. I stared up at them, too, even though it got a little painful because of the way I was lying on the grass. We were silent for a long time, only speaking when the others bid us a good night. Then all went silent, and the rest were all asleep, save Fang, who was evidently on watch. I must've watched those stars for ten, fifteen minute, all the while thinking my baffling little thoughts—y'know, the usuals: "Who am I?" "Why am I here?" "Why did I have to be born in a lab with a sociopath for a surrogate mom?" Things like that. And those stars . . . For a kid who's grown up seeing only a cold, unfeeling white ceiling, they were beautiful. Eyes still glued to them, I pushed myself up, eased back over to Derek, and nearly scared myself by leaning my tired head against his shoulder. Another long, silent minute. Then . . .

"Derek?" I asked, voice low so no one except him would hear. "Do you even know who I am?"

His shoulder moved faintly under my head—an evident shrug. His gaze stayed upturned, his eyes remained fixed on those stars.

"You're just some kid who got the wrong DNA added in, was raised by a psychopath, and who was sent on a stupid suicide mission."

Suicide mission, huh? Well, it did feel like that sometimes. As if any way this turned out, I'd still end up six feet under. I sighed to myself; as much as I love my wings, they _do_ make me stand out in a herd of _normal_ high school-age kids. But I mulled over everything churning around in my mind for a minute before I decided that I really couldn't feel things. What I thought were emotions were just shadows of the real deals. I looked up at Derek.

"I don't think I feel things," I whispered. He looked down at me and sighed.

"Yes, you do. You just . . . you don't hear it." He sighed again before inhaling almost sharply, as if he were suddenly realizing something. I noticed that he bit his lip before speaking again. "_I'm_ the one who can't feel. I run and run and run, and I don't stop. I _can't_ stop."

I glanced up, staring at him in the dark. Okay, he had to be kidding with me like he did a few nights ago with that whole expiration date prank. Seriously, _I_ was the one designed specifically for this assignment (unless you believe that evil dream I had), and Derek . . . Well, he was just my backup, my sidekick!

"Derek . . ." I said slowly, my voice hushed yet nonplussed, "what're you talkin' about? You're always . . . y'know . . . lookin' out for folks. I don't . . . just for _me_. And . . . and it's like . . . I'm _dead_. Dead to things like . . . like . . . like sympathy, for one. And . . . and love, I guess."

So much for a statement I'd caught a glimpse of on my records: "The additional one percent of avian DNA has shown no ill effects on the subject." Look, I know puberty and adolescence are hard enough on kids whose parents weren't semi-Nazi fruitcakes or evil scientists, but this was . . . a lot for me to try to wrap my mind around! Yeah, I know; I'm pathetic. Seventeen years old and trying to deal with the most basic emotions. Anyway, Derek shook his head, eyes meeting mine. For the first time, he seemed . . . pained. Sad, for some reason.

"No, you _do_," he said. "You see things and see 'em for what they are. Me . . . I don't react. Not an inch. I just do it because that's what my head tells me . . . My heart's been switched off."

I blinked rapidly a few times before realizing that, strangely, I felt like _crying_. Not whimpering, not moaning sadly, but _crying_. I think synonyms for it are _weeping_, _sobbing_, etc. I simply chalked it up to being around kids who were like me in every respect except that _they_ felt human while I was just a mutant freak. Then I surprised myself—and Derek, I might add—by reaching over, wrapping my arms around him, and _hugging him_. _Hard._ Inside, I wanted to stop, to pull back, to not get so close for fear of getting attached. If I'd have to kill him, too, then I wouldn't want to actually be good friends with him. And yet . . . He froze momentarily before his arm snaked over my shoulder. He didn't say anything, didn't move, didn't really react. He just . . . held me. And I realized that he was probably right; he didn't seem as if he felt anything because his hold on me was just . . . _cold_.

I must've been having a hormone overload that night because I was trying my hardest to blink back tears. My throat hurt from the sad lump rising in it, and my temples were beginning to throb because I was clenching my teeth so hard. I sat there, head against Derek's shoulder and mind racing, before I realized that even in the midst of all the confusing, agonizing, mixed-up thoughts in my head, one thing was clear: I hated the Director. I hated her more than I'd ever hated anyone or anything, and _hate_ is a _very_ strong word. When little kids go "But Mom, I _hate_ broccoli!" they don't understand the fierceness in that word. Hating broccoli isn't like hating a person with everything you are. I felt as if some part of me, some deep-down, hidden part, were trying to fight back. To fight _her_. To be free, like I'd always wanted. And I was filled with such a surge of white-hot anger and rage that I couldn't resist opening my communication channel to _her_ so I could think one phrase as venomously as I dared.

_I hate you._

There was a terse silence on the other end before an equally cold response came to me.

_I never asked you to like me, Delilah—only to do as I asked you._

_I'm not so sure I _want_ to, though,_ I shot back. _Maybe I want _you_ to die. How about that, huh? How could you do this to Derek?!_

I_ didn't do this to him. Ask him yourself. He did it well enough on his own._

_But _you_ created him_! I snapped silently. _That means _you're_ responsible. And what if I don't wanna be your little pet assassin, huh? But I guess I have no choice in the matter, do I?_

_No, you do not,_ she hissed in reply. _And . . . _I _did _not_ create Derek. The only one I requested was _you_. He was already in pieces when I brought him in. _He _put himself together as haphazardly as possible. Did you know, after Batchelder left, he was subjected to an instructor for the human-lupines? Or that his best friend became a lupine hybrid?_

Okay, so I knew Derek had been knocked around by an Eraser trainer. He'd been beaten up, kicked around, smacked down, torn to pieces . . . poor guy. And yet, I had the sensation of suddenly not being able to believe a word the Director said. It was almost . . . liberating, really, to feel as if I could doubt her, as if everything she spoke should not be considered to be gospel truth. My entire body went tense as I frowned deeply; this woman was too much. She was too big for her britches. I wondered how _she_ would like it if _she_ were subjected to abuse via an Eraser trainer. She might not find it too rutting hot.

_You're lying to me,_ I thought angrily._ I_ know_ you are. You _always_ lie. I bet my date's in six months rather than four years because you lie. Keeping me chained up like some sort of animal . . ._

_I have never lied to you, Delilah,_ she replied, and I wanted to go "Yeah, _right_." _Concealed truth, perhaps, but never outright lied._

I don't know how much you would've taken were you in my place, but I was getting fed slap up. I'd had it up to my eyeballs with this woman, and I was being swallowed more and more by anger, hatred, frustration . . . And I had the nagging feeling of being _used_ more than I'd originally thought.

_I got shot for _you_, "Madam Director,"_ I silently snarled. _You and your "plans." Why, I oughtta let the Flock get you, you bitch!_

The silence that followed was _extremely_ terse, but, dang, did I feel awesome for having told her off. Of course, I had a moment where I realized "That just signed me up for an execution, most like," but I really didn't have time to think about it. I rather _enjoyed_ the sensation of being able to stick it to the Director. Go me, eh? Then, finally, she replied, but the tone I heard was none too pleased.

_Very well. We shall see about you._

Yep, I was due for an execution any minute now. No matter; I'd learned to fight years ago. No way was I gonna let that devil woman get to me now. Remember what I said once about not taking squat from her? Exactly! _Now_ you're catching on. Anyway, the channel cut abruptly off, and I winced, rubbing my forehead. But for some reason, now I just wanted to be away from all this. I didn't want to do _anything_ other than escape and be free as a—well, y'know. But a sinking feeling in my stomach reminded me of one thing the Director had told me time and again: I had no choice.


	14. 13: Chocolate Mornings

**A/N:** Derek to **JaxSolo**, Del to me, everybody else to James Patterson. Oh, and I tried to be accurate with details regarding San Francisco in this chapter, so I did research since I'm not from there. If any San Franciscans read this and realize I screwed something up, lemme know!

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen – Chocolate Mornings**

I knew when I cracked my eyes open that I'd overslept. That was, well . . . it was unusual for me. Remember, I'm normally up at five-ish, maybe earlier if I'm not feeling well or if something's not going right. The first thing I noticed was sunlight streaming through the trees and warming my face, and as I cracked my eyes open, I realized that Derek wasn't anywhere around. I was no longer curled up nest to him; instead, my back was against that oak tree and my chin was almost touching my chest. Talk about a crick in my neck. I could seriously hear my neck cracking and groaning as I lifted my head, shielding my eyes against the early morning sun. And what was my definition of "oversleeping," you might ask? Any time after seven in the morning. No lie. So I figured that it was maybe seven-thirty or something. I glanced around, stretching slightly and stifling a few sleepy yawns. After all, I'd had a long day yesterday. But the first thing I noticed about the Flock, who lay nearby in a semicircle, was that Fang the Laptop King was gone, too. But then I glanced skyward and saw two dark splotches flying high above San Francisco. _Oh._ So, those two had buddied up, eh? Well, I hadn't doubted it, what with their mutual love of laptops. Then again, seeing Fang punch the crap out of Derek's nose after we left San Diego had pretty much smashed that thought that they could be friends. But they were up there, just flying around and not attempting to kill each other. Huh. Maybe I'd missed something during my hiatus. For a minute, I felt actually sad that I'd been gone so long. Maybe if I'd stuck around, I'd be best friends with these kids instead of some freak sent to break their necks. I let out a long, heavy sigh before there was some rustling sound or other not too far away from where I was sitting. Guess who was pushing himself up from the grass, rubbing his face with his hands. Need a hint? All right: red-haired bomb-happy blind bird kid. I glanced over at him.

"So, I guess you're the early riser in this bunch?"

When I said that, he looked up in my direction and actually _smiled_. Like, a wide, friendly grin. And you know what? My stomach turned a somersault. I know, I know; I'm pathetic. I mean, look at me! My heart was pounding like a drum just because some guy had smiled at me!

"Eh, not usually," Iggy replied, pausing to listen to the sounds of the others' breathing before carefully working his way around them. It seemed to me that he was using those breathing sounds to locate everyone. Before long, he was right next to me. Funny how we always end up sitting beside each other in the early morning hours, ain't it? "Seems like you are, though."

"Force of habit," I admitted. "Back at the School they used to make me get up at the crack of dawn to . . . _train_. So, habits and all withstanding, I guess I actually overslept today."

He chuckled faintly before reaching out and lightly touching the back of my hand as if he were deducing my _exact_ location by touch and sound. A shiver ran across my shoulders and down my back. What the hell was _wrong_ with me?!

"I guess it's good that you can talk about that place without freaking out," he said. "The rest of us . . . well . . . we don't like to say much about it because of everything that happened there."

"Understandable," I replied. "My life ain't been any easier than yours, most like, but I'm cursed with optimism."

_Actually, I'm blessed with this magnificent ability to lie to your face._

He half-shrugged as he gave my hand one squeeze before releasing it. Way deep down, I really didn't want him to let go, for some reason. Was this what those magazines designed for teenage girls call a "crush"? Y'know, like those issues at grocery store check-out lanes—the ones that have covers with big letters on them proclaiming "ARE YOU IN LOVE?" or some such overly sickening sentimental crap.

"I wouldn't call it a 'curse,'" Iggy said thoughtfully. "I guess it's good to be optimistic. Maybe not as much as Nudge, but . . . you get the picture. Anyway, well, I'm glad you made it back okay."

Whoa, whoa, _whoa_. I just about choked on the air I was breathing. He was _glad_ I hadn't been killed? _Glad_ I wasn't being tortured by Itex? _Glad_ I'd come back to them? Scary. I must've really been doing that whole "make friends" thing properly. And yet . . . in spite of all the shock from that little statement, I felt . . . good. As if I were actually _wanted_, _liked_, whatever, no-never-mind to the fact that neither he nor the others knew my true mission. So instead of coming up with some lame way of expressing my feelings (which might've been something to the effect of "Uh, thanks"), I just let one word come spilling out.

"_Really?_"

Iggy nodded, and I nearly fell over. My first intention was to fall into the grass, but I knew that if I keeled over, I'd probably end up tumbling into his arms and having a severely awkward moment. But then I realized that this guy was _serious_! He was _glad_ I was still breathing! It was a weird sensation, lemme tell ya.

"Yes, really," he said. "You're . . . nice. Derek and Fang have been gettin' along pretty well since you vanished, so . . . maybe you and I could be friends, too."

My jaw dropped open even though he had absolutely no idea that it had. Was I hearing him correctly? Had he just suggested that the two of us be buddies? Was I delusional? Had I gone stark-raving _bonkers_?! I obviously lost all speech abilities because I could only manage one-word questions.

"Why?"

"I dunno," he shrugged. "I guess you're easy to talk to."

Oh. _Oh._ I was terrified that he was going to say "Because I'm madly in love with you, Del, and I can't live without you!" Can anybody say _gag_? Quite frankly, I was grateful that he hadn't said anything to that effect, because that would've been just _weird_. But no, he wanted to be my friend because we could relate to each other, because we found it easy to talk to one another. That was . . . okay, from where I was sitting. Of course, it put a few hitches in my "kill them and run away" plan . . . but maybe I was having second thoughts about my assignment. Oh well. I sighed with relief.

"Well, I guess it's always helpful to have somebody to talk to," I said, and he nodded.

The next thing I knew, Iggy was reaching out his hand toward my face. The rest of the group was still asleep, as far as I could tell, and Derek and Fang were still airborne, but that didn't stop me from questioning what the hell he was doing.

"What're you doing?"

"Oh, sorry," he said, dropping his hand a bit. "Just needed a refresher course on your face—y'know, the shape and stuff."

"Oh. Okay."

Lame answer, I know, but for goodness' sake, my poor heart was going pitter-patter in my chest for some reason I neither knew nor could explain. Well, Iggy touched my cheek with one hand, and I closed my eyes for two reasons: I didn't want to get stabbed in the eyes with his fingers, and I rather liked the feel of his hands. Feel free to throw up at any time because I know you're about to. _Anyway_, he ran his hands over my face like he had when we'd first been introduced back in San Diego. Except . . . this time . . . it was different, somehow. I didn't really know what was going on, but I knew that he had one hand on either side of my face and that I was looking right into his eyes, wishing I had a magic wand I could wave that would make him see again. But that stuff only happens in fairy tales—y'know, Cinderella and Prince Charming and the Fairy Godmother and all that. Disney's famous for dramatizing those stories.

I think he almost kissed me. I don't know why, but that just seemed like what was happening. Like he was going to lean down in a minute and smooch me on the mouth. Maybe I was expecting that. Maybe I'd wanted him to, way deep down in the part of my soul that seemed to be awakening. But you know what? He didn't. He didn't really get a chance to, because a few seconds later, there was the sound of flapping wings, and his hands left my face in two seconds flat. I sighed to myself as I glanced up and saw Derek and Fang descending from the sky; those two sure knew how to ruin moments. For all I knew, they'd probably been waiting for the opportune moment to interrupt. I waved slightly at Derek.

"Been up already?" I asked.

He answered me with a single, silent nod. _Sigh._ Men. Fang had already grabbed hold of his precious laptop, and Max was half awake when he turned it on and cranked the volume up so that the little Windows jingle or whatever it was would awaken the others. Nudge was awake after a moment or two, declaring something about "starving." As Max cracked her eyes open, she grumbled that "these younger kids are too energetic for their own good." I just watched them all as they gradually woke up, drawing my knees into my chest and hugging them. Could I really be having second thoughts? I hadn't really thought that was possible. I didn't know what I was feeling, really. But . . . these kids . . . They were showing me how I could live—really _live_. I could live out my last years with . . . friends rather than enemies. But . . . if I spared them . . . _would_ I be their friend? In order to spare them, I'd have to admit to my mission. They'd probably shun me, turn me away. They'd probably let Derek stay but not me because I figured he'd never been sent to kill them in the first place. So I really sort of doubted if I'd ever be considered their friend in spite of what Iggy had said to me. Oh, why did life have to be so damn confusing?!

As I sat there moping to myself, Nudge had managed to get herself into a sitting position as she attempted to smooth her wildly curly dark hair. She then stated this dire "need" to go shopping, and Max and Fang exchanged an "Oh, gosh, not _again_" look. Apparently Nudge was infamous for loving to shop. I immediately had this moment of "Oh, no, we're _doomed_!" because the way I'd heard it, teenage girls were prone to dropping embarrassingly large stacks of money for no reason at boutiques and shops and what have you. Of course, _I'd_ never dropped a ton of cash at stores for clothes and things. Maybe that's because I've never had a ton of cash to drop. Oh well.

Obviously nobody really wanted to get a move on because we just . . . sat around. Yes, _sat around_. And here I was thinking these kids constantly moved around, trying to live from one day to the next. Guess not. Derek went over and seemed to be reading over Fang's shoulder, and Max took inventory of the little group's supplies and whatnot. Angel, who had a half-asleep Total on her lap, was starting up a quiet card game with Nudge, and when the Gasman (I ain't _ever_ getting' over _that_ name) finally woke up, he dragged cookies out of his backpack. Cookies? _Cookies?!_ Oh, gosh, those would've been _nice_ to have. It would've made my stomach feel a little less empty. I sighed, glancing skyward as he and Iggy took to checking out their explosives. It was a nice day, I supposed; there wasn't anybody else in the park yet except for the odd jogger, and there was a cool bay breeze coming our way. It ruffled my hair, and I closed my eyes because it reminded me of flight. What I would've given to snap out my wings and take to the skies, to fly forever and let no one stop me. What I would've given to be totally, truly _free_. Funny how it always seems to come back to that, huh? How almost every conflict in the world is fought for freedom. Thank God for Google, my sole source of information. I've never picked up a history book, if you can believe it, but I know when, say, the American Civil War was and what happened in 1929 (it was the Great Depression, if you must know). Anyway, back to my longing for freedom. Maybe I was having second thoughts about this assignment. Maybe, even in the face of the Director's haunting statement of "You have no choice," I _wanted_ to have one. Maybe I was fighting so I _could_. Maybe I wanted these kids to take me under their—well, you know—so I could have friends, a place to belong . . . But there I go again, exemplifying how my life is built of one "maybe" after another. I sat there, back against the oak tree and eyes closed, letting the cool breeze wash over me. I think that moment was the first time in my life that I'd ever felt something close to peace. And I know why, too. It was because I wasn't thinking about killing or being killed. It was because I was thinking about what it'd be like if I were accepted. Treated like a human instead of a genetically engineered _monster_. _Loved_, even. Maybe it'd be possible. Maybe I'd have a chance at a real, enjoyable life instead of one in which I'd have to run for my life every day. I sighed, eyes still closed, and quietly called up the Director. I had a question.

_What happens if I don't want to do this assignment?_

There was a moment of silence before the darkest reply I could've imagined came back to me, and I could almost see the Director's scowling face.

_Then your expiration date is accelerated._

What the hell?! It's not possible to speed up somebody's expiration! It's genetically engineered! Then again . . . maybe mine wasn't. My hand flew to my chest where I knew that stupid tattoo was. Maybe that thing had tiny electrodes implanted in my skin—electrodes that would zap my heart and kill me with one computer command. My blood ran cold as my eyes flew open, and nobody noticed, save Derek, and he only glanced up at me with concerned eyes. Oh, this wasn't fair! It wasn't right! I felt chill bumps rise on my skin as I went pale. The bay breeze blowing through that park was _nothing_ in comparison to the icy chill racing down my spine.

_Like, how fast?_ I asked her. _To months instead of years? Weeks? Days? . . . Hours?_

I couldn't believe that this could be true, that I could be hearing what I thought I was! Yet there was no further reply from the Director. Just silence. I knew deep down that it couldn't be possible to accelerate someone's expiration date, but then again, those Itex jerks are full of surprises of the nasty variety. Maybe they _did_ know something about my genes that I didn't—like how they could capture me and inject me with something (heaven knows what) to unravel my DNA and make me die a slow, painful death. Or maybe the Director's idea of acceleration involved six hungry lupine hybrids. I just . . . I didn't want to die! I wanted to _live_. I wanted to live and be free and be able to do what I wanted _when_ I wanted. I didn't want to have to run anymore. I didn't want to be _afraid_.

It felt as if I were going to have a meltdown any minute. Frankly, I might not have minded one bit if I'd broken down. All this pain, fear, betrayal . . . it'd be gone from me, relieved by one hour of miserable sobbing. I wouldn't have to hurt anymore. But I'd never cried a day in my life. I didn't know what it was like. And Derek . . . Oh, Derek. There was no way he could understand this now, not if what he said were true, that he couldn't feel anything. There was a split-second where I wanted to give of myself to help him. I wanted to help Iggy, too, but didn't know how. I just rubbed my forearms, feeling those long, ropy scars trailing up and down. They still smarted a bit, even after what Batchelder had done for them, what with the bandaging and all. I put my head in my hands and sighed.

_Oh, God, _please_ help me . . . I'm so lost . . . afraid . . ._

I didn't know if He'd hear me. I wanted Him to, though. I wanted _somebody_ to listen to me, God or otherwise, because nobody else did. I took to rubbing my arms again, and once when I did, I suddenly noticed that I no longer felt the scars. I tugged up my windbreaker's sleeves and glanced down. No scars. What the hell . . . That was . . . strange, to put it simply. Then I pressed my palms together. They were warm and seemed to almost be . . . glowing? Not blinding light like a fluorescent light bulb, but like the gently glow of a faintly burning candle. Weird. And so, unable to figure out what _that_ meant (for all I knew it could mean I was dying), I just shoved my hands on my windbreaker pockets and tried to forget.

No one else seemed to notice that I was experiencing weirdness. Derek and Fang were still hunched over the laptop, Nudge and Angel were still playing cards, Gazzy and Iggy were still checking their bomb stuff . . . I sighed and watched them all for a while before Nudge looked up at me and grinned.

"C'mon, Del!" she urged, waving me over. "You've been over there by yourself _all day_. Come play with Angel and me."

I wanted to make a sarcastic retort that it had _not_ been "all day" but couldn't find the strength to do so, for some reason.

"Well . . ." I began. "Nah . . ."

"Oh, c'mon!" Nudge repeated. "It's _fun_! Besides, if you don't know how, we can always teach you."

She nodded emphatically as Angel scrambled up and came over to me, sinking to her knees on the grass beside me and tugging at my sleeve. And then she did it. She beamed, well, _angelically_ at me.

"Please, Del?" she begged, tugging at my sleeve. "_Please?_"

I sighed. This kid was too damn cute for her own good, and she knew it, too. She was ten years old, by my estimate, and nearly as tall as I was, but she was still just as cute as could be. She kept gazing at me with those big, innocent blue eyes of hers, and I eventually crumbled.

"All right," I said, glancing up in time to see Derek smile approvingly at me. "Okay, I'm in."

And so I traded my spot against the tree for a spot against . . . Iggy. Yep. When I sat down across from Nudge and Angel, my back ended up being pressed right against his. Talk about awkward. I immediately felt heat rise in my face as I suddenly had butterflies in my stomach that I couldn't explain. All I knew was that I had enough to start a collection! Yet I stole a glance at Derek and saw a frown cross his face. Uh oh . . . Iggy stiffened momentarily behind me but then turned slightly. I turned, too, and my face ended up being not more than six or eight inches from his. We seriously had to quit having these close encounters. But then he _smiled_ at me. Again. And I got a serious case of the "warm fuzzies." I'm not kidding! This warmth unlike anything I'd ever felt before flooded me from head to toe.

"Hey there," he murmured, and my heart skipped a beat. Seriously, what the hell was _wrong with me_?!

"Yeah, here I am," I answered, sounding as close to my normal self as I could. And why was I getting back into my usual sarcastic nature? Because Derek was closing watching us. _That_ was suspicious, lemme tell ya. "They dragged me out of my self-imposed exile."

He grinned at me as I chuckled wryly and turned back to Nudge and Angel. Yet the whole time, I couldn't shake the strange feeling that Derek was just staring me down. Once when I glanced up, I met his gaze, and he ever so casually (yet oh-so-obviously) looked the other way. Hmm. Anyway, Nudge tossed some cards at me, and I spread them out in my hand, glancing down at them.

"So, what're we playing?" I asked. "Go Fish? Old Maid? Gin Rummy?"

Total, who was lying in Angel's lap with his head against her middle, sighed wistfully.

"If you were playing stud poker or blackjack," he said, sounding a bit sleepy, "I'd play, too."

_Stud poker?_ _Blackjack?!_ I raised an eyebrow but said nothing, and Nudge just giggled. I mean, sure, I could play both of those . . . but heaven forbid that these kids should ever know that I knew. And I can play a mean game of blackjack, lemme tell ya. Ahh, the glories of the Internet Age. You can learn everything from how to gamble to how to make a rhubarb pie. But you know what? Learning that the DOG knew how to play poker and blackjack was just too, _too_ much. _Waaaaay_ too much. As I adjusted my cards in my hand again, I glanced up ever so briefly. I don't know why I always look up whenever I have something to say to the Director. Maybe it's because I always end up feeling as if she's looming over me. _Sigh._

_Why them, Director?_ I asked silently. _Why are they such a thorn in your side? Why _me_? Why did you have me built when you could've just as easily sent a thousand 'bots after them? Why _anything_?_

My own words startled me, making the hair on the back of my neck stand on end: BUILT. I'd been _built_, _created_, whatever, to be . . . _this_. This assassin, this killer, this . . . monster. I hated myself. I wanted to die. Well, no, I didn't—not really. I just didn't want to be what I was, not anymore. I wanted to run away and never be found, to go away and hide, be safe, be _alive_ . . . And I wanted to feel _human_. Would I ever, though? Would I _ever_ feel normal, feel human? The Director never answered me, so I was left in silence. But after a minute, Angel gently prodded me in the knee, dragging me right back to the present.

We played various games for a while before she informed me that she could do a "really neat" trick—without reading my mind, even. Well, she wouldn't be able to read my mind even if she'd wanted to. I'm just quirky like that; you can blame the geneticists who thought it'd be fun to create a human-avian hybrid that has total control over her mind. Joy. Note sarcasm. _Sigh._ Anyway, we played cards for a long, long time, and I actually started to enjoy myself. Angel's little card trick went off without a hitch, and the card I chose at the beginning of it was the only one left at the end. And by the time we reached the end, everyone else was gathered around us, and I'd learned that Batchelder had taught this little trick not only to Angel but also to Derek. That seemed . . . well, _fitting_. But Batchelder still scared me, and I didn't like to think of him. At all. But when the little card game came to an end and my card, the ace of diamonds, was the only one left, I'd actually had _fun_. No kidding! I'd enjoyed myself. I just smiled at Angel and told her she was something, and she beamed at me so brightly I almost needed my sunglasses. Yet I reached over and ruffled her blonde curls, and she just grinned at me as Total jumped up and licked me on the face. Gross . . . I wiped it off, sighing to myself as I looked around at the others. And suddenly . . . I felt _grateful_.

"Look . . ." I began. "I, um . . . I'm glad you guys didn't turn me and Derek away. Me especially. I never fit in, uh, anywhere."

"Kinda what we do," Max shrugged. "No biggie."

"Still, it's better than anything else we've encountered," Derek said, settling himself rather close to me. "Thanks."

I nodded as Nudge reached over and hugged me. Gazzy told me that if I stuck around, I'd get to throw one of his homemade grenades. Sweet . . . Yet Iggy went one better and offered to teach Derek how to _build_ one. Even more awesome . . . But what was less awesome and more . . . disconcerting . . . was how I immediately had this image stuck in my brain of me and Iggy building a bomb together, our hands all sandwiched up together. Trust me, it was a bit weird to think of that with everybody else around. I sighed to myself as Fang and Derek went back to the laptop; obviously they'd been researching tourist sights all morning.

"How about Alcatraz?" Derek suggested. Max grimaced.

"A prison? Please, no."

"Golden Gate?" Fang said. Nudge sighed.

"Not right now," she said. "It's prettier either at sunrise or sunset. Maybe later."

The two laptop lovers consulted the laptop again before glancing up at us.

"Ghirardelli Square?"

At that, I sighed and almost _moaned_ with want, nodding rapidly. Look, I may be a sheltered little bird kid, but I sure as hell know what Ghirardelli chocolate is! I've just . . . never had any. Sad, I know.

"Yes, please . . ." I said. "Just so long as I can totally OD on chocolate for, like, the next month and a half . . ."

Nudge started off on a tirade on the wonders of chocolate, but since she was seated on my left, I never heard her. Maybe that was a good thing. All around, our expressions were ever so favorably inclined toward this world-famous Ghirardelli Square. I mean, seriously, Max looked like she might faint and Iggy looked like he might die and go to heaven. Derek just smirked, locking gazes with me for a minute. I felt my cheeks grow warm and immediately looked the other way. What was wrong with me?! Was I turning into what might be considered a "real" teenaged girl, what with the blushing every time some guy looked my way and all that? Oh, dear . . . I could hardly bear to think I could be morphing into that girl Derek and I bumped into in San Diego—you know, the one who thought my hair was "so totally awesome." Well, it might not be so horrible if I found out I had a feminine side _as long as_ I didn't end up like those hyperactive, permanently coffee-buzzed teens with low-rider jeans, high-cut blouses, and cell phones glued to their ears. All right. Now that that's clear, we can move on. Ahem.

As you can no doubt guess, the choice to go to Ghirardelli Square was unanimous. All of us sighed with want, and Derek just chuckled.

"So I guess that's a full agreement, huh?" he asked, and Nudge looked incredulous.

"You GUESS?" she gawked. "Oh, yeah, of COURSE! You know how long it's been since we've had CHOCOLATE?!"

"Me?" I sighed. "Since never. Well, since next-to-never, anyway. Life has been boring until a couple days ago."

_Yeah, since a couple days ago when I realized I had A) assassination programming and B) a tattoo that could track my every move,_ I added to myself. _Talk about "interesting."_

"Seconded!" Derek agreed, climbing up from his cross-legged position on the ground. "Should we get flyin'?"

"Up and at 'em, kiddos," Max called, and the rest of her group was on their toes in a heartbeat. "Breakfast with chocolate!"

"Which has milk!" Iggy added cheerfully. "And cocoa is a veggie, right? So we're eatin' healthy!"

Within a matter of minutes, we were all up and getting ready to go. The park was beginning to come alive with early-morning joggers and walkers, and whenever people passed by, we just packed our stuff up and looked ever so casual. And as soon as there was no one around, we all snapped out our wings and shot into the morning sky, easily reaching an insanely high altitude as we cruised over the city. Sure, we could've walked there; after all, it probably would've attracted less attention _and_ we would've gotten a little exercise. But I think that we were all too danged excited to gorge ourselves on chocolate to care how many people saw us and snapped pictures of us with their silly little camera phones. And guess who was actually having _fun_ for the first time in her chemically-accelerated life? Mm-hmm. I wasn't even thinking about the Director and her "orders." I wasn't even thinking about that to the extent that I never even noticed that she wasn't poking me anymore. Well, I eventually did, but I just had this thought of "Ah, so we're not on speaking terms anymore, I see." At the moment, I just wanted my chocolate, and I wanted it _now_, so it didn't matter to me _what_ crap the Director had to spew in my face. But here . . . flying along, above the city, with the salty sea wind in my face and the gulls for companions . . . it was like being in heaven. I still didn't want to die, but I knew that if heaven were like this, then I certainly wanted to do everything I could to end up there for real.

I must've _really_ looked unlike my usual self, with my eyes closed in glee and my wings flapping rhythmically, because Derek floated over to me and nudged my shoulder. My eyes popped open to find him watching me cautiously, one eyebrow arched as he studied me.

"Okay, what gives?" he said, keeping his voice low as we flew steadily along toward the square. "Suddenly you're not the girl I was flying with to San Diego."

"What makes you say that?" I asked, banking slightly.

"Del," he replied, totally serious, "you're _smiling_."

_Oh._ Well, I guess that _would_ be cause for suspicion, knowing me, eh? I chuckled to myself as we cruised ever onward toward Ghirardelli Square. Max and the Flock were a few feet ahead of us, so the little conversation Derek and I were having was totally private.

"Rare occurrence much?" I asked Derek, totally knowing he'd say yes. He nodded, and I smirked before sighing. I instantly got solemn. "The truth is, Derek . . . I've been thinking . . . I, uh . . . _She's_ not giving me any choice, but I think I'm having second thoughts on my mission, so . . ." I trailed off, shrugging as I shoved my fists into my windbreaker pockets. "And slap me before I turn into a freaking Nudge-ite."

I sighed and looked down at the city stretching below us for miles. Derek was silent for a long, long time before he reached over and took my shoulder, giving it a squeeze.

"I was wondering when you'd come around," he said softly. "Reason says, hell, no, we'd better not kill these guys."

I limply shrugged as if I didn't care, but I heard the approval in his voice. Not making eye contact and feeling fear again swell within me like a rising tide, I sighed shakily.

"There's just one hitch," I mumbled. "She told me . . . She told me that if I didn't do this job, then . . . then my expiration would be accelerated. I know that's genetically programmed, so . . . I think that's a euphemism for 'execution squad.'"

Derek was silent again as tears welled in my eyes and threatened to spill over. Never in my life had I out-and-out _cried_, but here I felt as if I were about to have my very first experience with that. I looked up at him, mind racing and heart pounding in fear.

"I don't wanna die, Derek," I whispered, voice shaky. "I don't wanna die! I'm so scared because I _don't wanna die_!"

I was going to cry at any minute, so I quickly looked away. If I were going to burst into tears, I didn't want Derek to see it. Yet the next thing I knew, he took my chin in his hand (yes, in midair) and looked right at me. I found myself staring into his red-brown eyes, and those eyes were _compassionate_. I know he'd said he couldn't feel anything, but it just seemed as if he totally knew what I felt. Maybe it was just something he'd picked up from being around Batchelder all his days. Or maybe he _could_ feel things but hadn't discovered it yet—like I had.

"I know," he said to me, oh-so-gently. "And you're not. You're not gonna die. There's strength in numbers, Del. We'll be with you. We'll all help you. I'll protect you."

Wait, wait, wait. He was telling me he'd protect me? That was . . . I mean . . . I . . . Whoa. So I wasn't alone anymore? I didn't have to be afraid? Wow. I tried to say something but couldn't find words, and Derek just smiled this quirky little half-smile. And get this. When I looked at him, I got this weird tingly feeling in the pit of my gut—the same tingly feeling I got from glancing in Iggy's direction. Can anybody say "Uh oh"?

"Remember what I told you yesterday," Derek went on. "Don't worry about the Director. We'll always outfox her. Then, someday, she'll be gone and you'll never have to be afraid of her again. Then we—all of us—all eight of us—will be okay."

Again I tried to say something, but this time he put a finger over my lips to shush me.

"Nobody's ever said this to you before, Del," he said, "so I will. I've got your back."

At this, I felt my heart leap, and it was like a giant weight had been lifted from my shoulders. _He had my back._ You have _no_ idea how much that meant to me! Nobody had _ever_ told me that. No one had _ever_ been by my side, been there for me. I'd always been on my own and had always had to fend for myself. I guess I'd been wrong in thinking I could handle everything by myself. I suppose I was discovering what it was like to be _human_.

"Thank you, Derek," I sighed, feeling so . . . _relieved_. "Thank you so, so much. You don't know how much this means to me . . . And, well . . . When we got sent out, I hadn't thought I'd need a sidekick. But I think I was wrong; now I guess I really do need one. Guess I ain't as rutting superhuman as I'd thought."

Derek just gave me another of his gorgeous half-smiles, giving my hand a squeeze and in turn making my heart clench happily. Deep inside, I was so, so grateful I now had a friend, but I didn't know how to express it. I just knew that Iggy, having been sent ahead as a scout, was several blocks ahead (yes, on the ground) and waving his arms back at us. So down we went, cruising down to an unoccupied pier and landing there. I came down last and barely managed to stay on the pier. But I _did_ stay on the pier—by nearly careening right into Iggy. Okay, so I'm still awful at this landing business, okay?! Gosh . . . _Anyway_, I almost knocked Iggy over, and he rocked back and forth rather uncomfortably. I felt bad enough over nearly pushing him off the pier (since, y'know, bad landings can always be rectified with practice), but it was worse when he found stability—by reaching out and grabbing my shoulder. And what made the situation even _worse_ and _more_ awkward was that _I_ grabbed _his_ shoulder, too! My face immediately grew hot, _especially_ when I noticed that he'd gotten himself steady again but hadn't taken his hand off my shoulder. And have you ever been six inches away from the face of the very guy who makes you inexplicably nervous? Then you know precisely how I felt. It was . . . disconcerting. But I attempted to recover the situation by clearing my throat and apologizing.

"Sorry about that," I muttered, and I could've _sworn_ I heard Nudge getting ready to make some crack about that moment of contact. "I really, _really_ suck at lying."

"No big," Iggy smiled, giving my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "I screw up sometimes, too."

"Oh, yes, you _always_ screw up when landing," Max snorted, sarcasm thick on her tongue.

Angel giggled in a way that sounded . . . mischievous. Knowing, almost. I tell ya, that girl was _not_ living up to her name as far as I was concerned. I just chuckled weakly before _finally_ noticing that my hand was still on Iggy's shoulder. Naturally, it dropped from there just as quick as you please, and we got ourselves all disentangled and back on our own feet. I coughed faintly before backing away . . . and right into Fang. I was becoming quite the klutz! Maybe my human hormones were making me weird. But Fang just smiled good-naturedly at me, getting me turned back around and facing the right direction. But that didn't stop him from making a sly crack right next to my ear.

"If I didn't know better," he murmured, "I'd think you'd done that on purpose."

My jaw dropped as I let out this horrified gasp and a tiny, high-pitched squeal. My face burned with embarrassment as I drove my elbow into his gut, but he had such a hard, muscled stomach that it seemed as if it should've barely fazed him, but he doubled over, and I heard the wheeze that came out of him. And, trust me, that was the _gentle_ treatment. I could've knocked his breath completely out of him just by punching a little harder. How could he be so thoughtless?! Behind me, Derek snickered, but I thought it sounded a little . . . off. As if it weren't totally real. Hm. Nudge burst out laughing as Gazzy tried to hide a smile but failed. Max looked mildly amused, Total seemed like he might throw up, and Iggy just smiled warmly at me, once again making me turn beet red. There was sniggering all around me as I tried to adjust my windbreaker as calmly as possible, attempting to regain control of the situation.

"All right, what's this about gorging on chocolate?" I asked as coolly as I potentially could. "I dunno about you all, but I could probably take a few cupcakes and not gain an ounce."

Thankfully, Max took my hint and led the way off down the street, Angel bounding along behind her with Total cradled in her arms. I couldn't figure out _why_ she wouldn't let that dog walk for himself, but he didn't seem to mind. I mean, why should he? If he's got a doting little girl taking care of his every need, why would he need to walk? Anyway, we headed ever closer to Ghirardelli Square, and the whole time, Nudge absolutely would _not_ shut up about how "starving" she was and how she just couldn't _wait_ to sink her teeth into chocolate. I just wanted to beat Fang to silencing her via clamping a hand over her mouth. But I did not get such an opportunity because we arrived at the square and were immediately spellbound.

The rich, warm scent of chocolate hung in the air like perfume. Never in my life had I seen such a sight. It was a quaint little place, but using the word "little" as a size-related adjective is a lie. It was _huge_, composed of shops, cafés . . . The shops were all unique and enchanting in their own special ways, and for a kid who's grown up in an all-white research facility, it was a huge deal. I knew that chances were somebody could find anything they could possibly think of in one of those shops, so I tried it. I thought of hair sticks (y'know, those little thingies you girls can put in your hair so it has an almost Chinese style), looked around, and, sure enough, I saw some. So there ya have it. Mystifying. But we hadn't come to go souvenir shopping; we'd come for the world-famous _chocolate_. And guess what we found. Yep—a café that was _specifically_ Ghirardelli. Needless to say, we went _there_. We all nearly fainted when we walked through the door. I decided I wanted to stay right there for a long, long time and just breathe deeply of the cocoa fragrance. And I didn't even care that we all looked like tourists because, well, we _were_. So there.

Anyway, Angel immediately grabbed Max's hand and dragged her off toward that Ghirardelli café, and we all followed suit. I noticed that Derek was having a hard time _not_ drooling, but I didn't blame him; I had to swallow more often than usual because the chocolaty scent had that effect on my taste buds. When we got in the café's door, I could only stare and smell. It was a cute little place: Ghirardelli stuff _everywhere_ in a lightheartedly decorated room. I'd say it looked a little like an old-fashioned ice cream parlor, but, well, I'd only seen pictures of those on Google. Besides, my brain was reduced to a pathetically severe level of incoherency, so it was difficult to think about anything besides the scrumptious chocolate. Then came the hard part: _choosing_.

When we approached the counter, a friendly girl, maybe our age, stood ready to take our order. The rest of us were too overwhelmed by the assortment of chocolate goodies, but even chocolate could not silence Nudge, so she struck up a cheerful chat with the cashier. By the time the rest of us had made up our minds (Max had read the menu to Iggy, naturally), she had informed the girl behind the counter that her name was Tiffany, that she was from Hershey, Pennsylvania, and had therefore only been to _that_ chocolate wonderland, and that we were all her best friends in the entire world. That put a kink in my stomach. Even though I was trying _so_ hard to get out from under this assignment, I couldn't help but still feel . . . _trapped_. But I couldn't think on that any longer because we'd finally made up our minds on what we wanted. Derek got a _huge_ mug of hot chocolate (with whipped cream and, like, a gallon of caramel sauce on top) and his very own plate of biscotti; I chose the same thing—a mug of cocoa—but got two of these giant scone-like thingies instead of the biscotti. I could've _sworn_ that cashier was starting to stare, but that was okay. I just tugged out my card and laid it on the counter for her to see. It must've had the look of containing a _lot_ of money because she just shrugged and kept ringing up our order. Nudge and Gazzy rattled off their orders, each of them getting two marshmallows in their cocoa, and Nudge went as far as getting an enormous brownie. Max went with _dark_ hot chocolate, also two marshmallows, some of those Pirouette-brand wafer roll thingies, _and_ a chocolate chip muffin. And why am I telling you what we all ordered, you may wonder? Because I thought you might find it interesting to see just how much Ghirardelli chocolate eight bird kids can take. Meh heh.

Anyway, Angel deviated from the norm and ordered a _chocolate mocha_ and her _own_ muffin. I think I speak for all of us when I say that we were insanely surprised to watch her choose something made of coffee—and of the non-decaf, to boot. But then Iggy put us all to shame. He ordered one of what Derek had gotten (as in, cocoa _and_ biscotti), one of what _I_ had gotten, _and_ hot cocoa with whipped cream and powdered sugar on top. Derek and I exchanged a "What the hell?!" glance, and even Max looked shocked. I had _no_ idea how he could eat _that_ much and still remain so . . . _skinny_. The cashier looked dumbfounded, too, but Fang recovered the situation by explaining we'd skipped breakfast, and the event continued smoothly while he rounded out the order by asking for plain cocoa and two blueberry muffins. We even got a couple pieces of biscotti for Total since he was waiting so patiently at Angel's feet. And speaking of totals, the grand one was . . . more than I care to remember, but I'm pretty sure it had three digits and started with a _1_. I was waiting for the Ghirardelli dudes to present us with "Most-Loved Customer" awards! And so, the cashier ran my card; it was still working, to my delight. I signed the slip before we all grabbed a tray and went off to scout out tables.

We crammed ourselves around the teensy tables in the café, and I noticed that Derek was eyeing me approvingly. I knew it was because I'd paid for this chocolate love-fest. As soon as I took the first sip from my cocoa . . . Oh, Lord, I thought I'd pass out. Derek looked like he was going to fall out of his seat at any minute, as did the others. But Angel was just sitting there, well, _angelically_ with her chocolate mocha, sipping at it just as calmly as you please.

"If I ever had to die someplace," Derek announced suddenly, startling me, "it would be here. No question."

"I'd die in Paris," Angel said, nibbling at her muffin.

"In the air," came Max's opinion.

"I don't give a damn," Iggy muttered, almost drowning in all the sugary sweetness piled around him. _Somebody_ was gonna gain two ounces.

"I wouldn't _ever_ die," I sighed, sipping at my cocoa and letting the warmth run down to my tummy. "I'd just . . . stay the way I am. Right now. Right where I am."

"That's poetic," Fang said, stirring his cocoa and breaking off a piece of muffin before popping it into his mouth. I nodded even though he had no idea _why_ I wanted to stay the way I was at that very moment.

"Thanks."

"Y'know where _I_ wanna die?" Nudge said, wiping a chocolate mustache off her upper lip. "I'm with Angel on this one. Paris is . . . _awesome_. So beautiful . . . all the stores . . . and the _EIFFEL TOWER_!"

"Oh, not this again," Max groaned, sticking one of her wafer rolls into her cocoa and stirring it around, watching the marshmallows dissolve.

"Why?" Derek asked. "You all have been there?"

"Some," Iggy explained, "but not all."

Derek went "Ah" and went right back to sipping at his cocoa. Nudge was about to say something—_again_—but Fang glanced at her once and she shut right up. Wow. That boy had power!

"Let's not go there," he murmured, and I glanced at him over the top of my mug.

"Where, Paris?"

"Or the discussion of it, at least," he replied. "Some nasty memories in there."

"Aww, you're no fun," Nudge pouted, evoking a giggle from Gazzy, who was sitting next to me and working on drinking his cocoa down in one long gulp. I just rolled my eyes.

"Why did we give her sugar?" I muttered to Max, feeling as if talking to the girl I'd been sent to slaughter were a momentous occasion or something.

"Because we forgot her hyperactivity."

I smacked my forehead with my palm musing over the stupidity of that action, but I didn't say anything. Instead, I quietly drank my hot chocolate and ate my scones, thinking to myself how absolutely _wonderful_ it would be _not_ to do whatever the Director told me to do. It would be just great if I didn't have to play the role of her sycophantic little slave girl. I savored that thought. And . . . as hard as it was to admit to myself . . . I actually liked being with these kids. They were my own kind, and they made me feel . . . well . . . a little more normal. And as awkward as it was to have close encounters with Iggy—and don't tell anyone I said this or I'll deny it—I really didn't mind them. He was nice. I liked him. And . . . I liked him a _lot_. But really—was there anything so horribly wrong with that? As I pondered all this, Derek took a long swig of cocoa and let out a contented sigh.

"Wow," he sighed. "I've never had _anythin'_ like this . . ."

"I don't think we have, either," Iggy said, biting into one of the goodies on his overfilled plate, "unless blowing up Erasers qualifies."

"You and Gazzy do that _every_ time we run into them," Max sighed, "and it doesn't matter if they're real _or_ robot."

Gazzy chuckled darkly, sporting a brand-new chocolate mustache that he didn't even wipe off.

"Ohhh, yeeeeah . . ." he cackled. "Hey, Ig, remember Big Boy?"

"What's _that_?" I asked warily. Gazzy looked at me, a mildly wicked grin cresting his face beneath that chocolate mustache.

"_Only_ the biggest, baddest, most awesome bomb we _ever_ concocted."

Iggy nodded rapidly, this enormous grin on his face. _Someone_ sure liked building explosive things . . .

"It was our last-resort measure of defense waaay back when," he explained cheerfully—maybe _too_ cheerfully. "Blew the whole cabin sky-high and three of those mutt-faces with it . . ."

"Wow . . ." Derek breathed, awed. I was speechless, and Iggy just nodded.

"Totally, man."

My eyes went wide as saucers as I just held my caramel chocolate concoction at my mouth, staring at the bomb-happy boys. Never had I heard people talk with such love about making explosives. I'd never heard of such a thing. It was _crazy_.

"And you two just _know_ how to make these things?" I asked, and Gazzy shrugged, smiling adorably at me.

"Well," he said, "Google helps. A _lot_."

"Way lots," Iggy agreed as Nudge giggled and Max sighed under her breath. He flexed his fingers, turning in my general direction and flashing me such a broad smile that it gave me that weird tingling feeling in my stomach again. Someday I'd have to know what that was. "Trust me, the Internet has never had a finer master."

"He may be blind," Max acknowledged, "but he is damn wicked with tech."

I chuckled, glancing across the table at the self-proclaimed web master. For the first time, I genuinely wished that he had his sight again. I thought back to how the scars on my arms had mysteriously vanished and how my hands had been warm afterward. Thinking on that made me wonder if, by some long shot, my already fast healing powers were developed to the point of being able to heal people _other_ than myself. So maybe I was experimenting with being concerned for the welfare of folks besides me. How did I decide this? I wanted him to be able to see again. Really. From the bottom of my bird kid heart. So much for that inability to feel emotions, eh?

It was quiet at the table for a long time. I suppose we were just so overwhelmed by the wonders of liquid chocolate that every word in the English language failed us. After a while, not long after I'd polished off my scones and downed the last sip of hot cocoa, Nudge and Gazzy sat back with simultaneous loud sighs of satisfaction. Gazzy's chocolate mustache now stretched from ear to shining ear (somebody's gonna come after me for that one, I know).

"That was . . ." Nudge began, sounding almost dazed, "the _greatest_ thing on planet Earth . . ."

"Copy that," Max sighed, biting the end off her last wafer roll.

Iggy had positively stuffed himself, and I tell you, his head nearly smacked against the table. Poor guy. I'd like to say that I'd warned him against eating all that stuff and drinking all that chocolate, but . . . well . . . I _hadn't_. Fang just looked amused; I think he'd made the most sensible choice of us all by having _plain_ cocoa and _plain_ blueberry muffins. Nothing extravagant—just yummy.

"Can't get up," Iggy groaned, and Max looked askance at him. Derek sighed.

"We can't really go to sleep here, you know," he said, and Max scoffed.

"Who cares?"

"I'm not sure _anybody_ does," Fang answered, looking around at the relatively quiet café. I guessed we were there early enough to avoid crowds.

"If we're gonna stick around," I said, "then we might as well make plans to have lunch here, y'know?"

"Agreed," Angel nodded, looking at Max with her innocent blue eyes.

Max agreed that we might as well stick around, and I declared that I hoped nobody crashed the party—i.e., the Director's robots. Everybody sort of looked at me like I was bonkers, but I just shrugged. I couldn't help it if I were paranoid. I was trying to get used to _not_ listening to the Director for the first time in my life. Despite the liberating feeling of that, it leveled me with fear that I'd die just because I'd wanted to be free. _Sigh._ Derek glanced at me momentarily as he drained the last of his cocoa.

"All right, Del," he said, "you're probably lacking in backup clothes by now. Wanna go out and look around? And nobody touch the biscotti."

He snagged another piece and pushed back from the table, his chair scraping across the floor. One of my eyebrows arched; there could be only one reason he was offering me a shopping trip: he had something to say that couldn't be said in front of the others. Hmm. But I was beginning to feel chocolate-buzzed, so I decided to humor him. I hopped up from my seat, and the two of us left the café, headed across the square toward a little shop we'd spotted that sold Ghirardelli-themed touristy things—y'know, tee-shirts, coffee mugs, things like that. We were halfway to the store when he posed a _very_ unexpected question to me.

"Why do you look at him that way?"

I ground to a halt right there in the middle of the square, blinking confusedly. That question took me by surprise, quite frankly. I didn't really know how to respond. But I noticed that Derek wasn't looking at me. Hm.

"What?" I said, trying to give myself enough time to figure out what he'd meant by that inquiry. "What're you talking about? Look at who what way?"

He looked at me once before hurriedly looking away again, and in that moment, I realized I understood. He'd seen every time I'd so much as glanced at Iggy out of the corner of my eye. He'd been watching me, and now he wanted to know why. Honestly, though, so did I! I bit my lip, not knowing how to answer.

"Iggy," he said, voice quiet. He sounded almost . . . upset. "You look at him, and . . . something starts pounding me in the chest, and I don't know why."

I blinked again, looking at him sideways-like. Huh.

"I . . ." I stammered, trying to figure this out for myself so I could explain it all to him. "Uh . . . Well . . . Gosh, Derek . . . It's just . . . he . . . I don't know! Maybe I feel sorry for him. Or maybe . . . maybe I don't. Maybe I think he's a nice guy; I dunno!"

I really _didn't_ know. Remember, I've been cooped up away from normal people all my life! I've never gotten a chance to experience the little, simple things in life that so many people take for granted! I've never known what it's like to have a close-knit circle of friends or what it's like to glance across the high school cafeteria and realize that the senior varsity quarterback was smiling at me. Me, I'm just a freak. A poor, confused little freak. And now it seemed as if Derek were just as bewildered.

"Well, someone had better explain this to me," he said, sounding frustrated if not a bit scared, "because I'd rather like to know what . . . what this is in me right now! I don't get it!"

I sighed, shoving my hands in my windbreaker's pockets and hunching my shoulders forward before rolling them back. I so wished I could explain to him what he felt, but _I_ didn't even know. Absently, I noticed that my wings itched, and I wished vehemently that I could shake them out.

"I don't know, Derek," I answered, feeling ever so very helpless as my mind started churning with a thousand different thoughts. "I really don't. I keep feeling like I can't stop myself from lookin' at him. Like I've got no control on my eyeballs. And—"

I broke off as I abruptly realized something. Derek had just complained of feeling something unfamiliar. Which meant . . . he _could_ feel, if only a little! I turned and stared at him as we jumped out of the way of a lovesick couple, ending up on the same side of the street as the little tourist shop.

"Holy crap, Derek!" I exclaimed. "You mean to tell me you're not this feeling-less rock anymore?!"

"I don't know," Derek replied morosely with a sigh and a shake of his head. "I have no idea why I _am_ feeling this way all of a sudden or if I'm even feeling . . . I just _don't know_!"

I glanced at him and sighed, biting my lip. I felt so awful for him—and yes, I _do_ mean that. Slight change of heart here, remember? Hello? Anyway, I felt awful for him and wanted to reach out and grab his shoulder, but I didn't.

"I don't know either. I don't know why whenever I so much as glance at him, it's like my chest is too small for my heart. Stupid thing's like to jump right out."

"Look at us," Derek sighed, looking me in the eye. "We're two crazy mutant freaks who have idea why they even _have_ feelings, much less understand them." He paused and shook his head, jamming his hands into the pockets of his blue jeans. "Shall we get you clothed before we head back and lose ourselves in this whole thing?"

I chuckled wryly, glancing over at him. What, did he think it was just me and my bra underneath that windbreaker? For the record, I don't even _own_ a bra. Under my shirts, I just wear this tank top thingy with some sort of stretchy and/or supportive lining.

"Might as well, I guess," I said. "And yeah, look at us. Pretty pathetic, huh? I guess I wanna be _normal_ more than anything."

"Likewise," he agreed. "Too sheltered for too long."

He said nothing more as we attacked the tourist shop. There were some outdoor racks obviously designed to draw shoppers. Well, it worked. Derek wandered off, eyeing a few things—mostly overpriced sweatshirts. I jokingly suggested that maybe the sweatshirts were to encourage folks to exercise so they'd feel better about eating all that fattening chocolate. Derek just smiled wryly and didn't say anything, so I could tell he was still thinking about our little chat from a few moments ago. So I turned to one of the racks and flipped through it, looking for something plain. Derek wanted me to buy a spare shirt, so buy a spare shirt I would. But then something caught my attention. Something _yellow_ as opposed to all the chocolaty brown tee-shirts. I frowned at it as I pulled it out, and then I saw that it was a bright yellow shirt with big red letters on it that read "Bird Kids Are People Too." Hm. Remember how I mentioned I'd seen that on bumper stickers? What was it doing _here_ of all places? I suddenly had this eerie feeling as the hair on the back of my neck stood on end. I remembered how Batchelder was always looking out for me, always trying to make sure I was okay—y'know, in that creepy stalker sort of way that he has. Frowning deeply and trying to get over my nervous fear that something was about to go horribly, horribly wrong, I held the shirt out to Derek. His brows crashed together as he stared at it.

"Weird," he said. "_Way_ too weird."

I nodded and put the tee-shirt back on the rack as inconspicuously as possible. I certainly didn't want anybody seeing my interest in that shirt. In my mind, I could already see the confrontation: somebody would call me on my noticing the shirt, we'd get in a debate, and eventually my wings would be noticed. Yep. I was _so_ not buying _that_ shirt.

_Nice try, Batchelder,_ I thought to myself, _but you're gonna have to work a whole hell of a lot harder than that to buddy up to me!_

Sure, I may have been willing to think twice about my assignment, but it would surely be a cold day in hell when I _ever_ thought twice about _him_. So I just picked up a plain little shirt off the rack (making sure it was my size, obviously) and went off to pay for it. As soon as I did, I hauled my shirt to the nearest restroom after telling Derek to wait for me. Once I got to the restroom, I commandeered an empty stall and went in, slinging off my backpack and tugging off my windbreaker. I dug a pocketknife out of my sack since I always keep one in there; it's like my backpack is a giant survival kit. _Anyway_, I took a minute and cut two big slits in the back of my brand-new shirt because it'd be _really_ hard to try to fly without a place for my wings to get out. Ahem. Once that was done, I tugged on the shirt, zipped my windbreaker back up, grabbed hold of my knapsack, and hightailed it back to Derek.

Yet as I made my way back to Derek, waving at him to draw his attention, something across the square caught my attention. There was a small television in a shop window, its screen facing out. There was a commercial of some sort on the screen; that was fine. Commercials are big companies' ways of enticing customers. But what _wasn't_ fine was that there was a message in that ad designed to trigger subliminal encoding like I have. It was one of those commands that would trigger my assassination "programming"—y'know, that stuff the Director had tested in me and from which I'd gotten huge scars that had recently mysteriously vanished. But there was one difference here: I wasn't _programmed_ to respond to this trigger. Sure, I saw the commands, I felt them filter into my brain, but I didn't react because they weren't for me. Okay, so, if they weren't meant for me, then who _were_ they meant for? I glanced around momentarily, wondering if Itex had made Mark Two Erasers yet and if those would come popping out from around a corner at any moment.

I glanced over at Derek and realized that his gaze was glued to that TV screen. Suddenly, I knew. _Somehow_, I knew. My stomach turned a horrified somersault as I watched him just _stare_ at that screen. No . . . _No!_ I'd always known that he'd had programming just as I did, but I never thought I'd see the day that he'd be triggered! I wanted so desperately to help him but didn't know how. One word started cycling through my mind: _run_. So I did—sort of. My fists clenched as I backed away and started walking firmly away. I turned on heel and started walking back for the café, but I wasn't planning on stopping there. I was going to walk past and away and lead Derek away from the others. I tried to look as casual as possible as I walked away, but out of the corner of my eye I saw Derek drop into line behind me. I swallowed hard as I kept going, knowing that if he attacked me, I'd have to fight back. Maybe I'd even have to . . . _kill him_. I didn't want to, though; I hated the thought of maybe having to kill my only friend in the world—well, only _other_ friend. I took several deep breaths; either way this worked out, I sure wasn't gonna let that stupid programming be the end of me! The word _run_ was suddenly replaced by a new word that started swirling madly through my mind: _survive_. My pace quickened to a fast walk as the word kept cycling: _survive, survive, survive_ . . . Derek was still close behind me.

I turned the corner and was out of the square in a matter of seconds. Derek was still hot on my trail, and quite frankly, I was _scared_. I didn't want this to happen! I didn't want to lose my friend! But I knew his programming was taking full control; I remembered a few hazy things from my "testing." I vaguely remembered feeling my entire body escape my conscious control; it was as if I were a machine that had just been flipped on. Scary, I know. But I just kept going another short distance, shoving my balled fists into my pockets and grinding my back teeth. All I could think of then was how totally unfair this was. He wasn't just my sidekick anymore; he was my buddy! Yet . . . if he _did_ come after me . . . I _would_ fight back. But I realized there was still _some_ hope. The programming could be deactivated until the next stimulus came along via the recitation of a safe word. (Yep, I was listening to the scientist jargon.) If he only knew his safe word . . . I decided I had nothing else to lose except my life, and I really wanted to _not_ lose that! So I came to a halt and turned, taking a deep breath. I clenched my eyes shut.

_Oh, God, please,_ I thought. _Let him remember his safe word . . ._

"Derek," I said firmly, calculating that we were about four feet apart and that he could jump me at any moment. "Stop. Don't do this."

Yeah, like _that_ would work! I said that as if he could just go "Hm, you're right! I don't wanna do this" and just walk away! But the thing was, he _couldn't_—not without his safe word, anyway. I just hoped he knew it . . . I knew _mine_, but then again, I was the Director's pet. I _had_ to know things like that. I bit my lip as Derek stopped momentarily before he started rocking back and forth as if he were about to tackle me. His wings started to spread in what I _knew_ was the programming forcing him to take up a threatening stance. And guess what. It worked. I was terrified! Not of him, though; rather, I feared what was controlling him. What could control _me_ if the right trigger came along.

"Don' . . . wanna . . ." he choked out. My heart clenched; the programming had locked him out of even the ability to speak. "Makin' . . . me . . ."

_Director, how _dare_ you,_ I thought angrily as my mouth went dry.

I could only stare at Derek, fists clenched at my sides. Oh, how I wanted to make him stop this madness! I wanted my _friend_, _not_ an assassin! I wanted back the guy who'd told me he'd protect me from whatever the Director hurled at us! Yet here he was getting ready to attack me. To kill me. And I knew why. In the Director's eyes, I was failing my mission. By calling her a witch and wishing that the Flock would get her, I'd pretty much said "I quit." She didn't like that. She didn't like it when people told her no. Hmph. Typical sadist, her.

"Derek, your safe word," I begged, voice low so I wouldn't attract too much attention. "Tell me."

My nerves were tingling and about to come apart as adrenaline surged through every muscle, making them tighten and sing. It was all I could do to keep from either running as fast as I could as far as I could or lunging at him to take him down . . . to stop him. I planted myself firmly, one foot farther back than the other in case he should attack first. I wanted to be ready if I _couldn't_ help him. Inside, I tried to disentangle myself from our budding friendship just in case the worst happened. Derek rocked back, evidently getting ready to jump me. He took a ragged breath and rather stiffly shook his head.

"Sack of meat . . . inbred . . . Far East-style . . ."

I rolled my eyes to myself as I took a wary step back. "Inbred sack of meat"? _That_ was his freaking safe word?! Well, it certainly showed what those Itex morons thought of _him_ . . . But Far East? That could be _anything_! It could be Chinese, Japanese, Korean, Vietnamese . . . I was fluent in Mandarin Chinese, though, because I'd been _programmed_ to speak and understand it, and I think I was designed that way because Itex has a few partnerships with China. Or something. (For the record, I'm also fluent in French, Italian, Spanish, and Latin. Yes, _Latin_. I know it's a dead language, but it helps with deciphering scientist-speak, so shut up about it already!) But my mind was practically dead because I was frozen with fright, so I couldn't have dragged out "inbred stack of meat" if my life depended on it—which it did. I also didn't know if it were even Chinese!

_Oh, God, help me!_

"_Please_ tell me you know a _little_ more than that, Derek!" I pleaded.

He shook his head—again, stiffly. It seemed as if he were struggling desperately to fight the programming, to shove the orders away so he could help me help him. I wanted to run to him, to hug him, to tell him it'd be okay. But I knew that if I went near him, he'd attack. By then, though, I was certain people were beginning to stop and stare. I guess there aren't daily standoffs outside Ghirardelli Square. Sarcasm much.

"Don't . . . know more . . ." Derek forced out, his voice barely an audible whisper. "Sorry . . ."

I swallowed hard, taking another step back and forcing myself to think. If it were Chinese, I could help him. If it were anything else . . . we were both doomed. I prayed a quick, silent prayer that it _would_ be Mandarin, keeping an eye on Derek as he started rocking back again. He was coming at me any second; I just knew it! Stares burrowed into our backs as curious onlookers stopped to see what would happen. I had a feeling there were cameras on us and that this would show up on the Internet in the morning. I rubbed my sweaty palms on my jeans as I looked firmly at Derek.

"Look, Derek," I said, starting to sound desperate. "Is it Chinese? Is the word Chinese?!"

He struggled to nod once before he squeezed his eyes shut and lunged. His hands reached out for my throat . . . I tried to punch him but missed . . . Black spots as well as thousands of Chinese characters started dancing in front of my eyes before I took one gasping breath and forced out his safe word.

"_BEN TIAN-SHENG DE YI DUI ROU!_"

His grip immediately loosened around my throat, and the next second, we smacked into the cold concrete sidewalk.

* * *

Chinese from Browncoats-dot-com. It actually translates to "Stupid inbred stack of meat" according to the site, but do you _really_ think that, in his state, Derek would've conveniently remembered to add the "stupid" part? Let's just chalk it up to Del's brilliance. ;)


	15. 14: Secrets Better Left Buried

**A/N:** Derek to **JaxSolo**, Del to me, everybody else to James Patterson. 'Cause he's just awesome like that.

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen – Secrets Better Left Buried**

As soon as I yelled Derek's safe word, he rolled off of me and onto his side on the sidewalk, passed out cold. I felt awful for him, knowing that he hadn't wanted to do that but had been forced. And now, as I scrambled to my knees and turned him over onto his back, I could tell that he'd smacked his head pretty hard on the concrete. There was a small trickle of blood running down his temple; oh, crap, that was _not_ good. I didn't even bother to try to wake him up; I knew he wouldn't until his brain let him. So I just tried to heft him, and I succeeded pretty well. I was scared, though. People were staring and whispering, and I could hear police sirens off in the distance . . . I didn't know what to do, really, but my hard-wired survival skills told me that I just needed to _run_. I wasn't sure if I should go back for the others, but those sirens were getting louder and I was getting even more scared. So I grabbed Derek and dragged him to his feet, letting his head slump against my shoulder as I took his arm and put it around my neck. The thing about Derek, though, is that he's just a _little_ heavy. Well, he was to me, anyway, since I've never picked up another bird kid. Even with the light bones and whatnot, Derek was a little hard to lift. Then again, maybe he was just dead weight because he was out cold.

I was about to haul Derek off to some dark alley to hide when who should appear around the corner but the Flock, Max and Angel in the lead and worried expressions on their faces. They'd obviously heard my . . . er . . . _proficiency_ with Mandarin. It wasn't that I wasn't glad to see them; on the contrary, I wanted us _all_ to get out of there and pronto. But I was terrified that if they found out what'd caused Derek to flip, then they'd find out what I'd been sent for, and then they'd throw me out, shun me . . . I was so scared that I was shaking.

"C'mon, let's get out of here before those cops show up!" I hissed when the gang was in earshot. Nudge looked a little scared herself.

"But what's goin' on?" she asked. "I mean, one second there was this long string of Chinese, and the next second—"

"_Later!_" I barked, even though I knew I would most definitely _not_ explain things later, not if I had a choice.

Max stepped up to help me heft Derek, and I was glad of it. But then she glanced around, and I noticed one thing: Iggy wasn't with them. Max sighed before looking at Angel.

"Go wake up Iggy," she said, "and somebody go find us someplace to hide!"

Angel nodded and saluted before dashing back toward the café. Fang darted off toward a small alley, and the next thing I saw was him about a hundred feet in the air, shielded by the shadows of tall buildings as he scouted out potential hiding places. Before I knew it, he was at least several thousand feet airborne, and he had the entire city laid out before him like a gigantic checkerboard. Max stared up at him a minute before glancing at me, eyeing me almost . . . suspiciously.

"Explain to me why the two of you went off to buy a shirt and then we find you hefting him up while he's sleeping like the dead," she said firmly.

I sighed. Great. I had no problems telling about _him_, but what if telling what'd happened led to them finding out about _me_? I didn't want that to happen. I was scared of what they'd do to me if they ever found out what I really was. I mean, what would Iggy think of me if he learned I'd been working for the very people who made him blind? He'd _hate_ me! I didn't want that! I wanted him to—and yes, I _do_ mean this—_care_ about me. I glanced at Derek, who was still obliviously asleep, and I sighed as I shifted my grip on him. As I prepared to explain what'd happened to him, a sudden increase in the volume of those police sirens startled us, and we all started off toward that alley Fang had launched out of.

"Well, it's a long story," I said, voice low, as I glanced over my shoulder to make sure we weren't being followed. "But to cut it short, it's subliminal assassination programming. He was . . . coming after me. That Chinese you heard? His safe word. Makes him sleep like a rock. Kills the programming until the next stimulus comes along, too."

"Well," Max sighed, "guess _that's_ a relief."

I couldn't tell if she were genuinely relieved or if she were just humoring me. I sighed to myself; I'd nearly blown _my_ cover story, too. Max wasn't stupid; I knew that much. She could probably figure me out without ever having to so much as break a sweat. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to have all this finally out in the open, but if they would treat me as I feared they would, then I wanted those secrets—those horrible, horrible dirty secrets of mine—to just stay uncovered. Though I was hiding it quite well, I was so scared that my insides had practically turned to jelly. You probably have _no_ idea what it's like to be that afraid—and this isn't just "Oh, no, I have to sing a solo in the school musical, and I'm so nervous!" This is "My very _life_ is at stake here!" It's an awful, deep-rooted, paralyzing fear, let me tell you.

A couple of minutes later, Fang swooped down into that alley, silent as ever. He glanced around before looking at Max and me.

"Got some clear spots across the bay," he said, voice low. "I don't think anybody would try there for us."

"Good," Max nodded, then looked over her shoulder to see Angel heading in our direction with a still-yawning Iggy. Looks like _somebody_ had had a sugar high then a severe crash. "Let's get airborne, folks . . . and _quietly_."

We all spread our wings and pushed off as quietly as we could just as the cop cars came racing around the corner. Talk about a narrow escape, eh? Of course, I barely got off the ground with Derek on my back. That boy must've either started eating rocks or all that chocolate had gone right to his waistline. But I was lucky that Fang doubled back and took him from me, practically slinging Derek over his shoulder before flying on ahead. Since I no longer had Derek to carry, I went back to Angel and helped her keep Iggy airborne. Goodness, you'd think he hadn't slept in days. He moaned a bit pathetically but kept his wings pumping, and I wanted to reach over and hug him.

"Never been that tired before," he muttered, and Max glanced over her shoulder at him.

"You looked half-dead when you fell onto that table."

I sighed, rolling my eyes. Goes to show what too much sugar does to a person, folks. Sure, they're running on seemingly boundless energy for a while, but when they crash . . . boy, do they _ever_ crash! From Nudge's careful grasp, Total chuckled wryly as he wagged his tail. I am _never_ gonna get over that dog and how he can talk, I swear.

"As soon as we get to Oakland," he said, "you can have all the catnaps you can stand. Just no droppin' outta the sky on me, else I'll practice my newfound Chinese swear words."

"Oh, ha, ha," Max grumbled. "Can't you shut up?"

"Max!" Angel gasped, ever protective of her precious dog.

"I'd rather he'd _not_ swear in Chinese all the way back and forth," Max replied, sounding just a little grumpy. Gee, I wonder why? Narrow escapes and zonked out bird kids are quite common, after all. Sarcasm! "Talking, yes. Flying, _maybe_. Swearing except for my own stupid mishaps? Oh-nay."

My eyebrows went right up as I kept a careful hand on Iggy, lest he fall from the sky and lest we all hear Total speak Chinese. I just couldn't believe that Total had picked up the words that fast; after all, he'd only heard them _once_. I shook my head.

"Dog," I said, "you are grade-A _nuts_."

"Well, _you_ taught me."

Point conceded. Nudge started giggling, as usual, and I just rolled my eyes and tried to keep my mind focused on the situation at hand. I just wanted this all to be over so I wouldn't have to be afraid of them finding out. Too bad I hadn't lied and said I'd insulted Derek, punched him, and knocked him cold. That would've been better than telling them the truth as I had. Maybe I should've told them that. Oh well; it was too late for that now. Max just rolled her eyes at Nudge and Total as we kept flying.

We came down on the other side of the Golden Gate Bridge not too long later, and Derek was still out cold. There was a handy little park there, so I fluttered down into it, being as casual as I could: "Wings? What wings? Oh, _those_ wings!" Yeah, that was it. Fang came down right behind me, Derek still on his shoulders. He crouched down next to a tree, so I scampered over to get Derek off his back. I nestled him against that tree, gazing at him as concernedly as I dared, sighing. Poor kid. His life was as screwy—if not more so—as my own. I knelt down beside him, reaching over and smoothing his hair. For probably the first time in my entire life, I genuinely wanted him to be all right. Nudge crept up behind me, dark eyes worried.

"Uh, is he gonna be all right?" she asked me, voice sounding a bit . . . _small_. "I mean, I wouldn't want anything awful to happen to him! He's our _friend_."

My heart clenched at that. Derek was so fortunate, so blessed; he'd become the Flock's friend, and I still felt like the poor, orphaned wretch standing outside a house on a cold winter's night and staring longingly in at the happy, cheerful scene within. Think Oliver Twist or somebody like that. Maybe Huckleberry Finn. Somebody who was alone in the world.

Anyway, I dug a bottle of water out of my backpack and started looking around for something like a handkerchief. The Gasman handed me a bandana from his knapsack, so I took that and soaked it all the way through, wringing it out before pressing it against Derek's forehead, cleaning up the scrape from his smacking into that sidewalk. Oh, Lord, I hoped he'd be okay. He had _no_ reason to suffer like this. He certainly didn't deserve it! Then again, you know what the Director is: an absolute witch. This—attempting to use Derek as an assassin—had to have been her way of punishing me for my "failure." I silently hissed in a breath. Being deemed a failure has always been a, uh, sore spot with me. Remember that nasty dream I had when I was flying to San Francisco? Right.

After another few minutes, there was a groan from Derek, and I felt him shift and move under my hand. I instantly scooted closer for him, falling rapidly into that role of truly concerned friend, and the rest of the Flock gathered around us. Derek's red-brown eyes flickered open as his gaze latched onto me, but he immediately recoiled and buried his head in his hands; I figured he now had a massive headache.

"Welcome back to the realm of the sane," Max said, sounding mildly sarcastic but more than a little curious to know what'd happened. Derek groaned.

"My head . . ."

Poor thing. I wrung out the bandana and shook it dry, passing it back to Gazzy as I put my hand against Derek's forehead. Yep, he had one heck of a headache.

"It would seem Chinese _words_ have the same effect as Chinese _food_," I said with a wry chuckle. "You okay?"

"My head hurts like it's just been beaten with a sledgehammer," he muttered, and I winced, "but otherwise, yeah, I think I'm good . . . so long as you ain't dead."

"Nope, I'm alive and well," I said, shaking my head. "Runnin' off a bit of a sugar high, yes; dead, most definitely _not_. And your head probably hurts because you smacked it pretty hard on the concrete. Or maybe it's a side effect of the programming, I dunno."

I leaned over until I was so close that I could smell hints of chocolate on his breath. Goodness, _he_ was cute up close! Wait, wait, wait—that came out all wrong. Oh well. I just tugged some of his hair out of the way so I could see both his eyes, and when I could, I did a cursory inspection of his head.

"Nope, no damage that I can see!"

He chuckled and pushed himself up, leaning heavily back against the tree. I noticed that Max's rather suspicious gaze was fixed firmly on him, but it was quiet where we were. Even Nudge was mercifully silent. I settled down on the grass not too far from Derek, taking up a cross-legged position and picking nervously at the grass. I could tell that Max was about to ask pointed questions—questions I neither wanted her to ask nor wanted to answer. These were questions that could bring the entire infrastructure of my assignment crashing down around my ears. As I tried to ignore her piercing gaze, I couldn't help but feel that what'd happened to Derek was _my_ fault. Because _I'd_ ditched this mission, _she_—a.k.a. the most evil woman on planet Earth—had turned him on me to try to silence me. Now I didn't know what would come next! Fear bubbled up in me as I thought about that and kept feeling Max's burning stare stabbing right through me. Everyone was watching and waiting to see what she'd do. It was a long, tense few silent moments. Finally, she took a deep breath, shifting her weight and folding her arms.

"All right, full explanation, _now_," she said firmly. "If this stupid . . . programming _thing_ . . . kicks in again, I want to be able to make sure we all get outta the way before we die."

Derek and I exchanged a look that could only mean one thing: "Uh oh." But while there was . . . _relief_ in his eyes, there was fear in mine. My heart started to pound so hard I thought the others could hear it. I mean, I've got a fast heartbeat as it is, being three percent bird and all, but my heart tends to beat a whole lot faster when I'm under stress. I thought it'd explode from my chest and become a twitching heap of cardiac tissue on the grass.

"Long explanation," Derek muttered, not making eye contact with Max or any of the others. I wasn't either, to tell the truth. Max just frowned at us, unwilling to give up.

"We've got all the time in the world."

"Seriously, you do _not_ want to know," I emphasized, struggling so hard to get her to just drop it before I had a nervous meltdown.

"I think we do," Fang interjected quietly, "to keep us safe."

My heart sank at that. I was still an outsider, and I knew that I more than likely always would be one. It broke my spirit to finally arrive at the realization that I would _never_ belong anywhere, that I would never be special to anyone, never have a home or a family or anything like that. That just wasn't fair. Why didn't I get the same shot at this as Max had?! I was pretty much the same! I had wings! Even Mark Twos need someone! But oh, how it hurt me to realize that. It was like driving a spike through my heart, crushing all those little dreams and desires that I'd hidden from everyone—yes, even Derek, until recently. I started to tremble, but it was so faint that no one noticed. Beside me, Derek sighed quietly and glanced up at the Flock while I sat there, head bent, eyes downcast.

"I'll account for myself, then," he murmured, taking a deep breath. "Human-avian hybrid, Mark Two, Subject Seventeen—Derek. Raised by Doctor Jeb Batchelder, shuttled over into temporary training with some guy from the Eraser side. Picked up by the Director of Itex and put through all sorts of wing therapy to get me flying again. Sent on this mission with Del as something of sidekick. My life in a nutshell."

I swallowed hard, trying to calm my frightened, pounding heart as I waited for it . . . waited for it . . . waited . . . Then . . .

"What mission?" Fang's voice, quiet though strong, sliced through the air that was so very thick with tension.

And there it was. It was excruciating to realize that everything I'd ever said would soon be viewed as a lie. It crushed me to know that Iggy would probably never speak to me again, much less turn in my direction whenever I as much as said hello. I was on a downhill slide to definite doom, and I was so scared. I _knew_ the Director would kill me for this; I just _knew_ it! I didn't _want_ to die! My shoulders slumped as I forced myself to admit that everything I'd ever wanted, all my dreams and that silent wish to be accepted and wanted—cherished, even—had just gone right down the freaking drain.

"It's . . . hard to admit to," I managed, trying to hold back. "You've gotta understand that . . ."

Oh, what a _big_ bush I was beating around! Max frowned, folding her arms even tighter across her chest. Everybody else had varying expressions: Fang and Iggy's faces were unreadable; Angel's already wide blue eyes went even wider; Nudge's jaw dropped; and Gazzy just blinked a few times. My heart was still pounding like a drum, and Derek just looked at me once before bowing his head.

"To kill you," he mumbled as hot tears sprang to my eyes. "Didn't want to. Just wanted to stay alive."

As soon as those words left his mouth, revealing what I'd been sent to do, Nudge's eyes went as wide as her mouth already was, and Fang scooted back from me a little bit, _exactly_ as if I were some sort of horrible freak. That hurt so much . . . I was starting to shake harder now, and I didn't look at any of them for a long, long time. Finally, I knew I had to admit to my true identity. I had to tell them that I wasn't who they thought I was.

_Oh, Iggy, forgive me,_ I thought. _I'm so sorry . . ._

"Human-avian hybrid, Mark Two," I whispered, my voice barely audible even in the horrible silence. "Subject Twenty-one—Project Delilah. Hand-picked by the Director, hand-trained by the best . . . to _be_ the best. Created to be an assassin. To be completely emotionless and to be as cold a killer as there ever was."

Admitting that, reciting my "system specs," as it were, didn't make me feel better. If anything, it made me feel far worse. I never made eye contact with them, and I knew I wasn't truly emotionless because big, fat teardrops started cascading down my face. I was shaking like a leaf in a gale, and when Derek reached over to calm me down, I squirmed away from his hand, curling up beside the tree. I was so, so afraid . . . I didn't want to die . . . I was sorry for all this; I wanted them to like me! I _knew_ they hated me now; I just _knew_ it! I couldn't shake the terror that came bubbling up in me, filling me with a feeling of complete helplessness. That dream I'd had on the way to San Francisco came back with a vengeance, and suddenly, on the backs of my eyes, I could see those scenes playing out again: me, beaten and bloody, about to become an Eraser snack, barely able to move, my wing hanging limply . . . I started to cry bitterly as I curled up in a little ball.

"She—she's gonna kill me!" I babbled. "I don't wanna die! Oh, God, I don't wanna die! _Ren-ci de Shang-di, qing dai wo zou!_"

"Merciful God, please take me away." I was so scared, so utterly terrified, that I just spouted out that phrase with a pitiful sob. It didn't matter that it wasn't English. Then again, maybe it did. Maybe that meant that I was breaking down as a . . . as a_ creation_. Maybe my _programming_ was coming apart. Maybe I was _dying_. That thought frightened me far worse than I already was, and I just cowered in the fetal position, head in my hands, tears running down my face as I trembled violently with sobs. There was a hand on my arm, but I was now more than a little delusional, and I thought that that touch was malicious, that whoever was attached to that hand was trying to attack me, trying to kill me. I let out a shriek and kicked the hand away, jumping to my feet. My fists clenched into tight little balls, and hot tears streamed down my cheeks. I couldn't hold myself still long enough to hear reason, and even if I had, I probably wouldn't have understood. I felt as though I were going insane.

"_No!_" I screeched. "I won't! I don't wanna die! I _won't_ die! _I won't!!_"

Then I turned tail and took off as fast as I could away from Derek, away from the Flock. I could hear Derek yelling my name, begging me to come back, but I couldn't. I _wouldn't_. I just wanted to be gone, be away, be free . . . I just kept running, and when I could no longer run, I snapped out my wings and took to the skies, still bawling miserably. I didn't care where I was going; it didn't matter where I'd end up. I just had to go, had to leave . . . All I had with me was nothing; I hadn't even stopped to get my backpack. I just kept flying as best I could; however, my flight was sloppy and wobbly. My down strokes were shaky and my upstrokes were weak. Sooner or later I'd just fall out of the sky, but I didn't care. I just wanted to be gone. I couldn't stand that sensation of being hated. I didn't even care if they really didn't hate me; I never stopped to consider that. I was just so afraid, so vulnerable, so horribly _guilty_ that I couldn't even look them in the eyes anymore. Those awful images kept dancing in front of my eyes, and I buried my face in my hands as I let out an almost inhuman howl of misery. Still I kept flying, though—flying toward God knew where and not even trying to stop sobbing.

_Ren-ci de Shang-di, qing dai wo zou._

* * *

_Chinese once again from Browncoats-dot-com_. _I just copy and paste whenever I find a fitting phrase, so I claim no knowledge of Mandarin._


	16. 15: Help Me

**A/N:** Derek to **JaxSolo**, Del to me, everybody else to James Patterson. I really have to get back to good plot development before I lose all my readers...

* * *

**Chapter Fifteen – Help Me**

I don't know how long I'd been flying, but I estimated that it was about an hour or two. Then again, my brain wasn't exactly focused anymore. I was so scared, so shaken up, that I couldn't think straight. This couldn't have happened! It wasn't fair! It _had_ to have just been one terrible nightmare that would all be over in the morning! But it _was_ so; the Flock knew who I was, I'd had all my dreams shattered, and now I was alone. I possessed the very noun—loneliness—that I'd started out to retain but had eventually learned to despise. The very kids I'd been sent to murder turned into the family of which I longed so desperately to be a part. And I, Project Delilah, the human-avian hybrid that never ran from anything, was doing just that. I suppose that, knowing full well I had that tracker tattoo on my chest, I was truly able to run but not hide. And I've never been one to cry, but whenever I thought of that during my harried flight, I burst into tears. And what was more was that I started to wish someone were with me so I could have a shoulder to cry on. But I couldn't have anyone because I had so thoroughly convinced myself that they all hated me. Mine had suddenly become a pathetic existence devoid of all purpose.

As I came down from my sugar high, my wings grew steadily more unstable. I was still shaking with fright and now with lack of fuel; my stomach felt ready to digest itself. I nearly tumbled out of the sky because I simply had no more energy to burn, so I was mostly grateful when another huge city loomed into view. And once more, I considered myself fortunate when a large park ratcheted into focus. I was sick to my stomach from lack of sugar; I was tired; I was lonely; I was _afraid_, most importantly. Let's face it; my day just was _not_ going well.

I fluttered rather clumsily to the ground behind a large stand of trees, and as soon as I touched down, my legs gave out beneath me. So I collapsed next to a bush, stomach and mind churning, and a moment later, I thrust my head into that bush as I threw up. It was _awful_, and I hazily hoped that no one had seen me. Even if someone had, though, they'd probably just think I was some drunken teenager. That didn't make me feel better; if anything, it made me feel _worse_. So I stayed just like I was, sick from stress and hunger, before it finally passed. Eventually, I sat back on my heels, coughing and rubbing my face with my hands. Oh, gosh, I felt horrible . . . I was so alone and so _hungry_, what's worse, I didn't know where I was. All I knew was that I'd ended up in another bustling metropolis full of people who neither knew nor cared about me. I was afraid, too, because I was far from anyone who might could help me, and that made me a prime target for the Director's robots. I mean, what better target is there than one who's lost and scared? Never had I been as afraid as I was then; perhaps that's because I was never permitted to experience that feeling.

As I picked myself up from the grass, brushing dirt from the knees of my jeans, I tried to come up with some sort of plan to get moving again. If only I had my card from the Director . . . If I had it, I could use it to get food and transportation to someplace far away—provided she didn't freeze the account, of course. But I was hungry and had no money; maybe I'd have to resort to stealing just so I could have something to eat. It wasn't as if I couldn't be _good_ at theft, though; I was quiet and had rather nimble little fingers. But my first task was to find where the heck I was because I was too nervous to ask someone. My nerves were completely shot; I wouldn't be able to handle it if someone stared at me funny and didn't answer me. So I just started off down the street, being sure to keep my eyes open for any clues that might tell me where I was. I figured I was still in California but didn't know exactly _where_. Not knowing where I was for the first time in my life was a rather disconcerting experience, and I kept wandering until I found a place that looked relatively safe: a bookstore. Well, at least it didn't cost anything just to walk in . . . and maybe I could find a clue or two in there while I was at it.

It was quiet as I'd expected, but the smell of the coffee from the Starbucks was almost too much to bear. I was so hungry that I could've broken through the glass display case and eaten all of the cupcakes inside, but I didn't because I _really_ did _not_ want to get arrested or anything. So I walked on past, glancing over tables of sale-priced books and pretty much trying to look casual. I stole a look at a nearby cash register, and my super-sharp vision brought to focus a receipt that the cashier was handing to a customer. I quickly scanned it for information, and in that one look, I learned everything I needed to know: the store number, the store's phone number, the cashier's name (Kimberly), the date, the time, the city . . . And that city was Sacramento. Somehow I'd ended up in Sacra-freaking-mento! It could be worse, I mused. I could've accidentally flown right into Itex's hands—or paws, depending on the Director's mood du jour. My stomach turned another anxious somersault as I kept looking around. At least I knew where I was now and could work on formulating an escape plan. Maybe I could get a job for a couple days. That wouldn't work; I didn't know how to do anything. Besides, I couldn't stick around; who knew when the Flock or the Director would come after me.

I wandered off to another part of the bookstore, just browsing around and thumbing through a book of local tourist attractions. Just doing that stabbed me with a pang of regret; I'd had such fun with the others back in San Francisco. Did I miss them? Maybe, but I wasn't sure. I also wasn't sure of what they thought of me now. They probably never wanted to see me again, and they might stab me as much as look at me. That just wasn't fair. Sighing to myself, I put the tourist book back on the shelf and wandered off again. It wasn't long before one of the employees, a rather nerdy-looking guy in an argyle sweater, came up alongside me and grinned.

"May I help you find anything, miss?" he asked me.

I froze when those words came out of his mouth. "Miss"? Nobody'd ever called me _that_ before . . . Back at the School it was always "Twenty-one" or "Hey, you!" Sometimes one of the executioners and I would cross paths, and it'd laugh at me: "Hey, Dee-lie-luh! How's it feel to be a mutant freak _this_ morning? Maybe if we ever fight you'll be able to get a lick in edgewise before I kill ya!" And then it'd go off laughing, and I'd go my own way, angered to the point of doing whatever it took so I would be stronger than _they_ were. Then I'd go for training in the yard and fight one of those dog boys, and usually the one that insulted me was _very_ dead, _very_ fast. The thing was, those mutts always stressed the "lie" sound in my name. Think on this, folks: _lie_. Project De-LIE-lah. I'd been so bred to lie and cheat my way in close that it was in my very name. Anyway, I stared momentarily at the employee before getting myself together.

"Nope, I've got it," I said. "Thanks, though."

He nodded and turned to leave, and I started walking the other way when I suddenly remembered that my Bible was in San Francisco and that I would _love_ to read it . . . Maybe it'd make me feel better, I dunno. So I jogged after that guy, coming around in front of him.

"Actually," I said slowly, "there _is_ one thing . . . Where d'you keep your Bibles an' stuff?"

He thought for a moment before beckoning me to a shelf farther away, and there he left me surrounded by a dozen different Bibles and several hundred more inspirational books and whatnot. I felt drowned by all that stuff; how could anyone read all this? That worsened my already depressed state, and, ignoring another stab of hunger, I grabbed the first Bible I saw and hauled it off to a gargantuan overstuffed armchair in a quiet corner of the store. There, I propped it up on my knees and flipped it open to a random spot. This flipping-to-a-random-spot business usually turned up some pretty interesting material. Besides, it was better than reading _US Weekly_ or _Cosmopolitan_. And so my gaze fell on this phrase: _"Whosoever shall upon the name of the L__ORD__ shall be saved."_ Huh. I opened to another part: _"__Peace I __leave__ with __you__, my peace I give unto __you__: not as the world giveth, give I unto __you__. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid."_ Peace? No fear? How badly I wanted that! Tears sprang to my eyes as I realized that I was still afraid, still alone. I bit my lip to keep from crying, but it didn't work. My nose started to tickle, so I swiped at it. My eyes burned, so I swiped at them. But it wasn't long before a teardrop splattered on the tissue-thin page of the Bible and I snapped it shut, hoping nobody saw.

As I stood and left my squishy chair to return the Bible to its spot on the shelf, I couldn't help but think. That woman way-back-when in San Diego had implied that God cared about me. And if the Bible said the same thing . . . then there had to be something to it. I glanced heavenward, trying so very hard not to have a public meltdown. The next thing I knew, I was crouched in a dark corner, head buried in my hands.

"I'm so scared," I whispered. "I don't know if you can hear me, God, but I'm scared. I don't want to be afraid anymore. I don't want to have to run, to have to be so afraid. I just want everything to be okay. I—I don't even know if I'm doing this right . . . I just know that I'm scared and I don't want to be. _Please_, help me, God. Help me not be afraid."

As soon as I said that, I felt . . . better. At peace, I guess. As if God had heard me and said "Yeah, kiddo, I know you're scared. I'll make it so that you're not." It was . . . well, it was nice. I felt as if I could fly all the way back to San Francisco and face the others even though I didn't know if I _should_. But now I felt better (but still massively hungry), so I slipped off to the ladies' room to try to get myself cleaned up. Since there was (mercifully) no one in there, I washed my face with paper towels and hand soap and gargled hot water. Look, when you don't have a toothbrush handy, you've gotta make do! Then I ran my fingers through my hair, trying to neaten it, but my hair is one permanent mess, y'see. But when I was less teary-eyed and my face wasn't as puffy, I walked out of that restroom, hands in my windbreaker pockets. I was feeling pretty good as I left the bookstore, but when I glanced down the street, I felt all the color drain from my face. Why? Because _Max and Derek were walking right toward me_.

Instantly, I didn't feel so good. Maybe I lacked faith or something because all my fears came rushing back—or maybe my human nature just overrode everything else. But the vision of my torture at the hands of the Director and her Eraser executioners made me feel sick all over again as the images from it bubbled up in my mind, and I didn't even take any chances. I broke into a flat-out run and darted down the street, trying to get _away_. I knew they'd seen me, though, because they started following me. That terrified me far worse; they'd come to yell at me, I just knew it! So I kept running as hard and fast as I dared; my breath came in ragged gasps because I let myself forget how to breathe deeply and extract as much oxygen as I needed. I was just so afraid of what they might do to me that I just took off running and trying to get away. I glanced back over my shoulder every few seconds; they were still back there and gaining on me. My wings itched to snap open and carry me skyward, but even with that, they'd still be able to catch up to me. Frightened tears started cascading down my face as those awful images flashed in front of my eyes again, and I just kept running. I was nearly back to that park when I glanced over my shoulder and saw that only Max was there now. That startled me; it meant that Derek could be anywhere, lurking, waiting to strike. I kept running as fast as I could, and I was in a quiet part of the park, thinking I was in the clear . . . then . . . _WHAM!_

Out of nowhere came Derek, leaping at me and taking me down in a football-style tackle. I started to kick and struggle as his grasp tightened around me, and I cried bitterly, just wanting him to let me go, not to hurt me . . .

"L—let me _go_!" I sputtered, beating my fists against his chest to no avail. "_Let me go!_ I don't wanna die! Lemme go! _Please!!_"

He tried to hug me, but I was shaking too hard to sit still. I kept punching at him, trying to get him to let me go. I was still sobbing, once again drowning in that sensation of going insane.

"Let me go!" I begged. "Please! I don't wanna die!"

"Del!" Derek cried, grabbing me and shaking me. "Del, it's Derek! C'mon, girl, snap out of it!"

"_Let me go!_ I—I don't wanna die! You said I wouldn't! You _promised_!"

I collapsed in a miserable heap on the ground, shaking like a terrorized animal, sobbing like a lunatic. People would surely hear me and call the police. That scared me worse, and I just cried harder. Then Derek's strong arms, ropy with hard muscle, were tight around me, and he just held me. I sobbed into his shoulder, not even caring if people noticed and not even giving a damn if anybody called the cops. I just felt awful and needed some measure of consolation. Derek kept holding me close, slowly rocking me back and forth. Then I felt Max's hand on my back, and I cowered, whimpering. Look at what I'd been reduced to: a quivering, frightened little _nobody_. Maybe I'd been reduced to the level of a dumb animal by my fright. Derek smoothed my hair and kept rocking me, and Max didn't take her hand off me. They just waited until I'd stopped crying so hard and was just sniffling. My face was still buried in Derek's shoulder; he was my hiding place, and I didn't want to leave.

"Del," she said, and I thought I heard _compassion_ in her voice. "Del, we don't want to hurt you. We want to _help_ you."

I wanted to believe her. I wanted _so_ much to believe her. I swiped at my eyes, forcing out a laugh that almost seemed insane.

"That—that's what _she_ said, too," I mumbled. "Said I would be strong. Tough. Invincible. Now look at me! Wretched little waif . . . no home . . . no friends . . . good as dead . . ."

I heaved a shuddering breath as Derek kept holding me. Then I heard Max sigh before she squeezed my shoulder.

"You can help _us_, then, if you don't believe we're gonna help _you_," she said slowly. "You're in with the Director. You know her moods, her tactics . . . You could help us get in and bring them down for good."

That startled me. She wanted me to help them get inside and bring down the very monster of a company that had created me? She thought I could do something _good_? She wanted to give me a chance? Ha. Unlikely.

"I can go off," I muttered. "Go off any minute . . . just need the right stimulus for it . . . then you'll get to kill me. Like you've always wanted."

Derek's hold tightened on me if that were even possible. I heard Max sigh.

"He's got a safety net, so you should too, right? That way if it happens to you, you're safe."

Did you hear that? She didn't say "We're safe" as I'd expected; she said "_You're_ safe." _Me._ I'd never thought about the programming that way, that maybe the person in danger wasn't the target but the weapon herself. But I had to wonder why she was doing this. What was her little plan into which she'd dragged Derek? Or maybe . . . maybe there was no ulterior motive. Maybe for the first time, someone was telling me the truth instead of just more lies and muddled facts. I was silent for a long, long time, my face still buried in Derek's shoulder as he rubbed the spot right between my wings—y'know, that troublesome spot that itches in such a way that I never can reach it. After a while, I turned ever so slightly and peeked out at Max. She was crouched there next to me seeming so strong, so sure of herself, and I felt . . . inferior. I was never meant to be a leader; she was.

"Why?" I croaked out. "Why are you doing this?"

"Because you really are normal, Del," she answered. "And you deserve a second chance."

"But I came to kill you all . . ."

"But you _didn't_," Derek interjected. "That's the difference. I don't think you ever really wanted to."

Huh. Well, maybe I hadn't. Maybe I'll never know what I had wanted. I only knew that I now wanted to be accepted and to belong. Max reached down and squeezed my hand, offering me a little smile.

"Come back with us," she said. "I mean, Angel misses you and the Gasman thinks you're all-around awesome . . . Total wants Chinese lessons, and, well, Iggy didn't say anything, but I think he misses you, too."

I felt my face grow warm at that because, well, I missed him, too. I felt particularly embarrassed because I even missed _Total_. Sure, I probably wouldn't teach him Chinese, but still . . . I sniffled and swiped at my nose with the back of my left hand as Derek worked the knots out of my hair. Every fiber of my being _wanted_ to go with them and be accepted. That's what they were offering, anyway. They were offering me the chance to lead a relatively normal life and to even help take down the people I hated the most. Heck, maybe I'd get to punch the Director in the mouth once before we gave her just deserts to her. I looked at Max and nodded, sticking out my right hand.

"Thanks," I whispered as she took my hand and shook it. "Thanks for not throwing me out. I've never had anybody take me in like this."

"It's what we do," Max replied. "You're just a kid like us. You deserve a chance, too."

That's when I went and did it. I flung myself at her and gave her the hardest, biggest hug I knew how to give. I figured she probably wasn't one for a lot of sentimentalism, but I didn't care. I just kept hugging her, and she chuckled and accommodated me, hugging me right back. After a minute, I let her go, feeling tears—grateful, happy tears—well up but blinking them back. She smiled at me and patted my shoulder before standing up and walking off a short distance; I think she was checking to make sure that my little meltdown hadn't attracted any unwanted attention. I sighed, rubbing my face before looking over at Derek.

"Why'd you come for me?" I asked him. He shrugged and scooted a little closer to my side.

"Because it just wasn't the same without you," he said. "Angel was worried about you, y'know."

"Really?" Gee . . . that made me feel all special. Really. That _wasn't_ sarcasm, folks. Derek nodded.

"Really. She admitted that she was afraid for you—not _of_ you, mind—when she tried to test your mind and found every time that it was blank."

I chuckled wryly. Oh, yeah, those little mental blocks. I'd have to let her see what was behind them someday. She might not like what she'd see, though; I keep a lot of bad memories stashed back there—like when I landed my first (and rather gruesome) kill or like the time I was ordered to kill the rest of the Mark Twos in my "batch." In the back of my mind, I could still hear their screams of terror and pain as I came after them. My trainer had given me a long knife and told me to do whatever I liked with it. I squeezed my eyes shut, feeling sick as I remembered what I'd done. I'd only been twelve chronological years old at the time. Absently, I realized that Derek was squeezing both my shoulders.

"Del?" he was calling. "Del, you okay in there?"

I blearily blinked my eyes open again and found him kneeling right there in front of me. His brows were furrowed as with concern, and I reached up to put a shaky hand on his, sandwiching his hand between mine and my shoulder.

"I think I will be," I murmured. "I think I just need to . . . heal."

I sighed to myself before going nearly as straight as a board as he reached over and gently brushed some strands of hair from my face. Then he gave me this little smile that set my heart all a-flutter. Dammit . . . not this weird feeling over him, too . . .

"I'll help," he said gently, and the next moment . . .

. . . he kissed me. Good God in the heavens, it was . . . wow. And yes, he kissed me _on the mouth_. In a public park. In front of Max, even! But . . . _wow_. It was just amazing. Never before had I _ever_ felt anything like that. I didn't know how to react at first; my brain was too close to the brink of exploding from the sudden overload of new, wonderful feelings. Just the pressure of his mouth on mine sent shivers racing up and down my spine and tingling all the way out to the tips of my fingers and toes. It seemed as if a previously dead part of my soul had just been breathed to life, and it was . . . wow! I was stiff a moment before I relaxed and leaned into him, kissing him back, waiting for myself to just explode from the overloads . . . I wouldn't have changed a thing about that moment—well, I might've had him adjust the angle of his chin just a _liiiiittle_ bit—but not too much! Okay, so I didn't want him to leave me. Call me pathetic, but that kiss had just changed my mind about him. I'd recently begun to consider him my best friend; was he now more than that? Oh well; I suppose I was just confused by . . . well . . . _everything_!

Derek pulled back after a minute, and I still had my eyes closed. I guess I was wishing he'd kiss me again! He didn't say anything for a long time; what's more is that I swore I could feel Max's gaze latched onto us. Finally, I sighed and blinked up at him. He gave me another little smile, and I almost swooned onto the grass.

"Derek?" I asked in a tiny voice. I was a split-second away from asking him to do that again.

"Yeah?"

Here was my chance! I'd better make the most of it! This was a moment that I might never experience again!

". . . I'm really hungry."

Okay, okay, you may go ahead and laugh. I chickened out. I did! I was honestly going to ask him, though. I just . . . didn't. Maybe I was afraid that he'd tell me no. Or maybe I knew that Max was watching and I was nervous about so much as shaking his hand in front of people. Granted, it was only Max, and she's only _one_ person, but you really can't blame me, now can you? Anyway, Derek chuckled and smiled at me.

"I bet you are," he said. "C'mon; let's go find you somethin'."

He leaned over and pecked me quickly on the forehead before climbing to his feet and holding out his hand for me. I grabbed it, and he pulled me up onto my own two feet. I tugged at my windbreaker to adjust it as Max wandered back over, and I could _totally_ tell that she was trying her hardest not to mention what'd just happened. I figured she was attempting to be tactful about it; I just didn't want anybody else to find out that he'd kissed me like that in public. I hadn't thought Derek had it in him! Maybe he wasn't quite as I'd expected.

Anyway, we left the park acting more like sane people than crazed lunatics, and I felt better about myself and the world, no never mind to the fact that I still had a tattoo that could find my location at the touch of a freaking computer key. And no, Derek did _not_ hold my hand as we walked down the street. He kissed me _once_, people; that doesn't automatically make him my boyfriend! Sheesh.

So the three of us went walking down the streets of Sacramento looking for a bite to eat, and I didn't really care _what_ I ate so long as I did and it was edible. Eventually, we just stopped off and grabbed some hamburgers and fries—I ate _two_ burgers, I was so hungry. But once my stomach felt better and I wasn't running on empty, as it were, we slipped into a dark alley so we could take off; I think there might've been drug addicts in there, but they were so stoned that they didn't care about or even notice a trio of bird kids taking to the skies. But we got off the ground under the cover of tall office buildings and were several thousand feet up before I could blink. Max called over her shoulder that we were going to go meet the others near the Bay Bridge before banking and heading south. Derek dove after her as I brought up the rear, letting the wind whip through my shaggy hair and trying to allow the rhythmic pumping of my wings to calm me. My day had been a roller coaster ride already; I wished I could just lie down somewhere and sleep for a few weeks. And as if I hadn't had enough of an emotional whirlwind so far, now I was mulling over what'd happened between me and Derek. _Why_ had that happened? Where had he been going with that? What would've happened if I'd asked him to kiss me again? Arrg, it was so _confusing_! Here I was, trying to understand things which for all I knew were completely _not_ understandable, when I hadn't even been warned that it _was_ possible to like a guy in the "more than a friend" way! I just didn't know _how_. And now we were headed back to San Francisco where waited the _other_ guy who made my heart beat faster . . . God help me if I ever want to get _married_.


	17. 16: Reunion

**A/N:** Derek to _JaxSolo_, Del to me, everybody else to James Patterson. Yes, the plot WILL pick up again soon. Really soon. I hope. Don't give up on me!

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**Chapter Sixteen – Reunion**

Getting back to San Francisco was no sweat. Seriously, it was no sweat. Since I'm so very physically fit and also designed to fly at high altitudes, the flight back was like a walk through a park. I was still nervous, though; even though Max had said that the others all missed me, I didn't quite know what to expect. The part of me that didn't want to believe that I could be so easily forgiven and accepted by the very people I'd been sent to kill figured that I might as well just tuck my head between my knees and kiss my butt goodbye. _Sigh._

Anyway, we landed in Oakland, pretty much at the exact spot I'd run from. The rest of the Flock were still there, and my stomach turned a nervous somersault. Derek squeezed my hand as if to calm me, but it didn't work. I just got butterflies in my stomach. Those butterflies multiplied as the three of us—Max, Derek, and I—walked closer to the others. We were about fifty feet away when Angel suddenly spun around, and an _enormous_ grin absolutely lit up her face _and_ that entire quadrant of San Francisco. Then she bounded over to me, Total at her heels.

"It's Del!" she sang out as she flung her arms around me. "Del's back!"

Well. Apparently, Max had been telling me the complete and honest truth when she'd said they all missed me. I staggered backward when Angel hugged me; I wasn't quite sure how to react. The next moment, Total leaped up into my arms and started licking my cheek. Gross . . . But then Nudge happened. She ran over and threw her arms around my neck and started to hug me.

"I was so worried about you!" she squealed. "I was scared you weren't gonna come back, that you'd just left us for good! It was even worse because you left all your stuff here and didn't even say goodbye!"

She hugged harder, and I tried to gasp out a "Thanks, Nudge, but let me breathe!" Unfortunately, I couldn't even manage that. I was getting ready to resign myself to passing out when Max herded her away from me, telling her to let me have some air; the next moment, sweet, sweet oxygen rushed into my lungs. I staggered sideways as Nudge backed away, grinning apologetically. She's a sweet kid, mind, but she has arms like those plastic tie-wrap thingies that are _impossible_ to undo. Angel came over and hugged me again, then Gazzy scurried over and hugged me, as well. I think I was just stunned that I _had_ been missed so very much—at least, that's how it seemed! Max smirked at me in a way that said "And you didn't believe me." Okay, so I hadn't really. Derek squeezed my shoulder while Angel and Gazzy squeezed my waist, and Total looked up at me, little body quivering because his tail was wagging so dang hard and fast.

"I'm _so_ glad you're all right!" he said, a distinct tone of relief in his little doggie voice. "Who else would teach me Chinese?!"

"Well, it ain't gonna be me now, either," I muttered, opening my arms. He jumped out and trotted off, going "Hmph!" under his breath. I chuckled.

"I'm just happy you're not hurt," Angel breathed, big eyes shining. I melted—yep, right into a big puddle of bird kid mush. So I ruffled her hair.

"Nah, kiddo, I'm fine. Just was a little shook up, is all."

She beamed, and I looked up in time to see Fang wave at me. Sure, he wasn't one for words, but at least he wasn't holding up his laptop with a big message of "Ew, get _away_ from me, you assassin freak" on it. Then again, he seemed just a _little_ more mature than that. Heh.

I looked around at them all, stroking Angel's soft blonde hair because she was still there at my side with her arms wrapped tightly around my waist. Total was sitting beside her at my feet, tail wagging and tongue lolling out, and for probably the first time in my life . . . I felt _good_. Maybe I had a place after all.

"Thank you," I finally said, and Derek squeezed my shoulder. "Thanks, all of you. I wasn't . . . well, I didn't expect you to let me stay. Between my original assignment and his programming—which I have, too, by the way—well . . . I just hadn't expected to be welcomed, is all."

"Well, _I_ think you're pretty cool," Nudge said, giving me a gentler hug, "_even_ with the funky programming."

I laughed and hugged her back.

"Thanks, kid. I mean it."

"Say," the Gasman said, tilting his head curiously, "if Derek's safe word thingy was Chinese . . . is yours?"

"Nah," I replied. "Mine's in English, but it's equally stupid: 'run, sheep, run.'"

At that, Max laughed rather heartily, and I cracked a smirk. Yeah, it _was_ dumb sounding. Whoever the idiot who'd programmed me with _that_ was . . . he was gonna get it someday! I could hear it now: "Hey, are you the guy who programmed in my safe word?" "Yeah . . ." _WHAM!_ Trust me, I could do some serious damage. I could break his nose with the heel of my hand in one quick blow, or I could break his arm with one hand. Take your pick.

"Wow, that's a good one!" Max chuckled. "Not gonna be forgetting _that_ any time soon."

After a moment, she went totally serious, looking straight at Derek and me.

"You two are all right," she said, making firm eye contact with me in particular. "You're just stuck in a bad spot, like the rest of us. No big."

"Thanks," I breathed again, somehow managing to peel Nudge off for the umpteenth time. "Just . . . if you ever think we're too great a threat, know that I don't mind if you kick me out."

Sure, I said this with a little grin, but I wasn't sure if I meant it or not. After all, I still had that nagging want—desire, really—to be special. Important. _Wanted_ . . . and in the _good_ way—that'd be "hugs and kisses" wanted, not "dead or alive" wanted. See the difference? Max shrugged and clapped me on the shoulder.

"Even if that. I ain't willing to let something good get out of hand."

I smiled at her and was just getting used to being back among these kids when I glanced up and saw Iggy push himself up from the ground and amble over to me. As if the _incident_ in Sacramento between me and Derek hadn't left me with noodles for legs, this guy sure did. I swallowed hard as he came over and everybody else seemed to scatter—yes, even Derek, though he seemed a bit, well, _hesitant_ to leave me alone with somebody else. Huh. But he went off to socialize with Fang (I saw the two of them clap each other on the shoulder in a guy greeting), and when Iggy came over, practically towering over me, I instantly looked away. All my guilt came back; I really had no doubts that he had come to tell me how much he now despised me. I thought I could maybe handle it if the others had said that, but maybe I wasn't ready to hear it from _him_. Pathetic much? And not only that, but Max had offered me a chance to be something better, something more than an assassin . . . I didn't deserve that. I didn't deserve anything because, well . . . I just didn't feel as if I were a good person. That was why I figured that, were Iggy about to declare his hatred of me, I would do my best to be ready and accept it since, well, I probably didn't deserve any less than that.

"Hey," I mumbled, not looking at him.

"Hey," he replied, and I could've _sworn_ I heard a smile in his voice. That set my little heart a-flutter all over again, so this time, I looked up at him.

"Are you angry with me?" I asked, and I sighed to myself as my shoulders slumped. "You probably hate me now, I know."

"Hate you?" he responded, sounding a little surprised that I'd ask such a thing. Well, can you blame me? "Nope, not me. I just deal. Have been, what with . . . _you know_."

Yeah, I did know. I still felt awful for him but felt as if (and I know this sounds strange) his blindness set him apart from all the others, but not in a bad way. It was as if it made him _special_. Special to me, anyway. I did _not_ just say that out loud. Nah, I did. And I meant it, too.

"Good to know," I murmured, absently grabbing his hand and squeezing. "I just . . . I'll try my hardest not to do anything that'll set _my_ . . . programming . . . off."

I sighed and gazed at him; Lord A'mighty, he was _so_ cute. Well, maybe _handsome_ would be a better word. And I wished he could see me even though I knew he wouldn't be able to. Then I remembered . . . Every time he spoke to me, he just knew my voice. Sure, he knew the shape and feel of my face, but he didn't know what I looked like.

"I . . . uh . . . I've never told you what I look like, have I?" I asked.

I tried to put that as tactfully as I possibly could. Then again, I was raised by a psychopath, _not_ Martha Stewart. Tact is difficult to master. So, yeah, I was trying to be nice, but his brows furrowed as he turned away a little bit, letting go of my hands, and it felt as if I'd just made him feel worse.

"No," he said, "I don't think you have . . ."

"Well," I stammered, feeling my face grow hot, "I . . . I don't mean to make you feel bad, so if you'd rather I didn't . . ."

I hunched my shoulders forward but straightened when Iggy wheeled back around, and I could've sworn I saw pleading in his expression.

"No, tell me!" he said, and I bit my lip as he took my hand again. "It's just . . . I remember what everybody looks like because . . . _they_ did this to me. And . . ."

He trailed off with a sigh, and I just kept chewing at my bottom lip. Poor, poor guy . . . I guess I'd always kind of known I wasn't _truly_ emotionless, but I certainly hadn't expected to know so many emotions in such a short span of time. I mean, I'd gone from being cool and collected to having a breakdown, to having my very first kiss _ever_, to wishing I could do something helpful but feeling useless, and finally to feeling sympathy.

"All right," I said, taking his hands and putting them against my face so he could know what I was talking about. "Well, um . . . where to start . . . I've got auburn hair—kind of reddish-brown but with more red." Here I put his hands against my hair and let him feel it. "It's short: down to my neck and a little sloppy. I cut it myself."

"Max usually does hers herself, too," he chuckled. "Go on."

"My eyes are gray," I continued, closing them and putting his hands against them. Sure, he wouldn't be able to touch them like he had my hair, and he would pretty much only know where they were, but that was fine. "Do you remember how a sky looks just before it rains, how it's all dark and ominous? Well, they look like that when I'm angry or upset. But they're usually pale . . . and sometimes they seem so pale that it's like I don't have eyes at all. 'Piercing,' they call it, I think."

Now I took his hands and put them on my waist, of all places. Don't ask what was wrong with me since I was letting him have his hands on my waist. It's not as if that's a particularly _personal_ area; besides, I'd already been kissed once that day. Call me brazen, but it didn't exactly make me blush to have his hands around my waist.

"And I'm about five-ten, I think," I said, explaining my height. "I was at my last measurement, anyway. Or whatever I am, I'm barely taller than Max."

Iggy nodded slowly; I think he was piecing together a mental image of me. I hoped it was fairly accurate.

"You sound . . . gorgeous," he sighed, sounding wistful. "I just wish . . ."

He sighed and squeezed my hand, and I squeezed right back. I bit my lip a little harder to keep from crying as I nodded rapidly and just held his hand.

"I know," I managed. "If I could do anything—anything at all—I swear, I would."

Iggy sighed again and nodded, and the next thing I knew, I was sandwiching myself up against him as I wrapped my arms around his neck and hugged him—_hard_. He went momentarily stiff before hugging me back, nestling his chin in my shoulder. I'd never hugged anybody straight on and so completely like that; that was new. But it was nice, I guess: nice because I was freely hugging and being hugged in return. Ahh . . .

After a minute, Iggy let me go—or I let him go. I'm not sure. Anyway, he gave me a little smile and a nod as he backed away and headed back over to the others. I took a seat near a boxwood; I pretty much wanted a minute or two to myself—solo time, I guess. But I hadn't been sitting there by myself, eyes closed and back against the boxwood, for more than twenty seconds when Angel came up to me and sat down beside me, and it seemed as if she'd just been talking with Derek. I pretended not to notice how earnest she appeared.

"Del?" she asked after a long silent moment. I cracked an eye open and looked over at her.

"Yeah, kiddo?"

"How come your mind's blank when I try?"

I started with surprise. She'd been testing my mind to see what was in there, and that . . . well, it was _very_ disconcerting. Technically, this was my last cover, my last protection against these kids, but my entire mission—my entire _life_, really—had been laid bare before them because Derek's programming had gone off. I really had nothing left to hide. Well, I did . . . I had those memories of where I would kill my opponent during training and never even take a moment to think about it. I often wondered how close I'd come to becoming an Eraser myself—minus the sharp claws, the fur, and the halitosis. What I mean is . . . I'd been trained to kill without thinking about the ethics of it. So had they. I'd been created as an assassin—a murderer. _So had they._ Scary thought, trust me. But now . . . now I was getting a second chance, and I could be different. I could be _better_ than those drooling mutts. And that . . . that was a nice feeling. But back to what Angel had asked me.

"Well, um . . ." I began, rubbing the back of my neck. "I've got these . . . mental blocks. I, er, can put 'em up whenever I don't want someone knowing my thoughts. Which is . . . often . . ."

That time, it felt relatively good to get the truth at least partially out in the open. Angel cocked her head to one side, gazing at me in slight confusion.

"So you could get in easier?" she asked.

I don't know _how_ she figured that out when I still had those shields up. I figured she was just very, _very_ perceptive. I sighed, bowing my head and nodding.

"Yeah. Because . . . well . . . they told me about you—how you read minds. They said . . . if I cleared you . . . then I could . . . could . . ."

_Kill you all._ I swallowed hard, trying to get over the sudden presence of the lump in my throat. My stomach was flopping like a beached fish as Angel reached over and gently took my hands, and then I did it. I slowly lowered my shields—just for her. In an instant, I felt pressure on my mind as she scanned me, and everything I'd buried in there came gushing out in one huge flood. Every memory, every moment of every day of my life, everything that I'd been through . . . All of it came rushing out—and so did tears. Teardrops rolled off my cheeks and splattered onto the grass as I let Angel see _everything_—yes, even that day with the other Mark Twos. I could hear their pleading screams in the back of my mind and bit my lip to keep from bursting into miserable sobbing. A moment later, the pressure was gone, and Angel took one look at me before she reached over and hugged me with the feel of someone who understood completely but accepted me anyway.

"I'm sorry," she murmured, and I wasn't sure whether she was sorry for looking inside or for what I'd been through. Maybe it was a little of each. "I won't do it anymore."

I swallowed hard again and hugged her back, nodding. And . . . I felt a strange rush of relief. It was as if letting someone _finally_ know my past had lifted a great burden from my shoulders. And I guess I was glad that Angel had been the one. She was sweet and adorable, and I rather liked her. I guess I could consider her my surrogate little sister if I stuck around long enough. But then I decided that now that she knew and I felt, well, _free_, I didn't need to hide anything from anyone anymore. I really had no need for those shields now, anyway.

"It's okay," I told her. "I don't have anything to hide anymore."

Angel beamed at me in that absolutely precious, innocent way that she has before hopping up and bounding over to Max.

"Everything's okay," she announced, meaning me. "Can we go see some more sights now?"

"Yeah!" Nudge enthused. "We were planning on having lunch back at Ghirardelli Square, anyway!"

"I could stand dessert," Derek and I said simultaneously before we turned and stared at each other. We had _not_ just done that. Dang, that was creepy.

Apparently none of the others thought it was scary, because the younger kids burst out laughing and saying how hilarious it was that we should say the exact same thing at the exact same time. I blushed, Derek looked away, and Nudge declared me an "official" bird kid—"official" in the sense of being hungry every five minutes. Boy, ain't _that_ the truth? Here I was, fresh from having eaten two hamburgers an hour ago, but I was ready for dessert. How about cake? A nice thick slice of chocolate cake sounded good . . . Mm, yummy. But then I got an idea when Total trotted over to me, dragging my backpack with him. I instantly dug inside and pulled out my card. If it still worked . . . then so would my idea.

"Hey, why don't we find a hotel or something?" I suggested, waving the card around.

"What _is_ that?" Nudge asked, eyes wide. "Is that, like, your very own credit card? Did they send you one of those sign-up form thingies? How'd you get _that_? How much money's on it?"

"This," I explained, holding up my hand to silence her before locking gazes momentarily with Derek and receiving a favorable nod from him, "_is_ my very own credit card, so way to go, Nudge. Actually, it's a little 'present' the Director gave me before she sent me out here. I figure it's got a limit upwards of a couple grand, and that's if she hasn't locked me out of the account."

All eyes were on my card, and Nudge was gawking, eyes wide and mouth wider. Angel and Gazzy looked as if they were about to explode with delight, and even Max looked shocked. Derek just seemed proud of me for getting over myself and deciding to splurge on more than just myself.

"The way I figure it," I went on, "there is a heck of a lot of money on this piece of plastic, so if we could find an ATM . . ."

". . . then we could take the witch for everything she's got," Max finished, nodding. "Now _that_ plan I like."

The general consensus after that was that we could get the money and then go splurge a lot by picking a fancy hotel and staying at it until we were ready to move on from San Francisco. Then we all got to talking and decided that now that I wasn't going to do the Director's dirty work for her, we could start capitalizing on Derek's and my closeness to her. We all decided that as soon as we all got sick and freakin' tired of playing the roles of tourists, we'd fly out of San Francisco and go show the School what we all thought of it. That suggestion was met with a huge cheer, and I could practically feel the need for revenge that radiated off Derek and the elder three Flock members. I just knew that whenever Derek and I got into the thick of combat, the Director had better just put her head between her knees and kiss her butt goodbye! The next thing I knew, we were all slapping high fives, I was grinning at them all (Iggy and Derek in particular) and they were all grinning at me . . . and I was telling the Director "See? _This_ is what life is supposed to be like." She didn't respond, of course, but I didn't care. Sooner or later (I hoped _sooner_), she wouldn't be a problem for me anymore. It'd be just like Derek promised: that all eight of us—nine, counting Total—would be fine and free.

Once we had something of a plan in order, we decided to call it a day and go find that ATM. Once we did, I withdrew as much as I possibly dared, and that ended up about being two thousand big ones. Yeah, I probably could've taken more, but I didn't want to risk the ATM locking me out. Besides, two grand would be enough for a little while, right?

After that, we went back to Ghirardelli Square and spent some of the witch's money on yet more food. This time, we swung by one of the other restaurants for "real" food and stuffed ourselves there before we went back to that Ghirardelli café and got ice cream cones. As we walked away from the square, all of us licking at our cones and Total moaning jealously, I noticed that Derek started to lag behind the others while he licked absently at his ice cream. So guess what I did. I fell back beside him and reached over to grab his unoccupied hand. He must've been deep in thought because he jumped slightly before looking over at me. I grinned sheepishly.

"Sorry," I said, and he shrugged. "Penny for your thoughts?"

"Just thinkin' about how I . . . how I don't feel things," he replied. "Even in Sacramento, I, uh . . . I'm not sure I did."

I bit my lip as he went back to licking slowly at his ice cream cone. Then I just gave his hand a hard squeeze. I didn't want him to have to suffer anymore.

"Derek," I said, keeping my voice low, "I _will_ help you get your feelings back. I promise. Right now I don't exactly know _how_ I'm gonna do that, but I _will_. Okay? You deserve a break."

"You could try, I guess," he mumbled, "but I don't think I'll ever be the same again."

He said that with such a tone of despair that my heart clenched in sympathy. I just kept holding his hand tight in mine before I leaned over and lightly rested my head against his shoulder even as we walked along. Sure, I didn't know how I'd help him heal, but I just knew that I would work my butt off until I found a way. Maybe I had some weird healing power that I hadn't discovered yet; the memory of how the scars on my arms had vanished made me wonder that even more than I had before.

"You will," I said. "Lately I feel as if I want to look out for my friends more than for myself, and I definitely pit you high on the friends list."

He looked at me and smiled faintly as I lifted my head from his shoulder.

"Thanks," was all he said.

I nodded and gave a smile of my own as he gave my hand one little squeeze before letting it go. The next minute, Max glanced over her shoulder at us and warned us that if we didn't pick up the pace in the next ten seconds, she'd send Total over to lick me to death. I half-screamed in mock horror but sped up, licking at my ice cream again. Derek followed, rather thoughtfully licking his own ice cream cone again, but I caught up to the Flock first. I was acting _très_ causal, but that didn't stop me from drifting closer to Iggy _or_ from noticing the knowing look that Angel shot me. I just rolled my eyes and ignored her. After all, those two guys were just my friends. Right?


	18. 17: Room with a View

**A/N:** Derek to _JaxSolo_, Del to me, everybody else to James Patterson. And I'm so, SO sorry for the long hiatus of sorts. I didn't mean to make y'all wait so long. Luckily, this is a nice, big chapter! Enjoy!

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**Chapter Seventeen – Room with a View**

"It's so soooooft . . ."

That was Nudge's reaction as she snuggled down into the mattress, almost vanishing. It wasn't that she was so heavy that the mattress broke beneath her; actually, it was more like the mattress was so squishy that it swallowed her. _Whole._ I rolled my eyes at her as I briskly rubbed my head with one of those looped terry towels that hotels always give you more of when you run low.

"That's it?" I asked, my shock obviously very fake and my sarcasm obviously _very_ thick. "No long rambling spree on the goodness of real mattresses?"

Nudge just glared at me and hugged a pillow, this stupid little happy grin on her face. I flopped down onto my stomach on the other bed, wings relaxed and drying after my shower.

Oh.

Wait.

Maybe I'd better bring you up to date. Okay, so, after grabbing ice cream at Ghirardelli Square, we high-tailed it to the absolute most gorgeous, most high-class, most utterly _expensive_ hotel we could possibly find. Let's face it: we were pretty much eight independently wealthy bird kids with a loaded credit card and cash stuffed in our backpacks (from said loaded card), nobody was telling us what to do, and we could therefore do whatever the heck we so desired. Oh, yes, what a lovely feeling _that_ was . . . It was like being eight kid Rockefellers . . . with wings. And a talking dog. But, well, who _doesn't_ have a talking dog? Sarcasm much.

Anyway, well, when we got to the hotel, the clerk at the counter was about to have a cow because, heh, we were trying to squeeze eight kids and a dog (once again, the seeing-eye dog trick came in handy) into one little ol' hotel room. So we got two connected rooms: one for the girls, the other for the guys. And as an added bonus, that meant we'd never have to argue for the bathroom. Sweet. It's not like I require much bathroom time, anyway. I'm in, I'm out, and by the end of it all, I'm squeaky clean and rather decent-looking. No makeup, no hair styling, _nothin'_. Just in, shower, out, and done. Easy. I dunno why every other girl on the planet can't do that . . .

_Anyway_, we got our two rooms, and we all crashed into them rather immediately. The connecting door was opened, and it was decided that it would _stay_ open. It was something about the Flock not wanting to be separated. Oh well. As soon as we took over the rooms, Derek claimed the guys' bathroom and showered while I took over the girls' and did pretty much the same thing. As I lounged there on my stomach, just trying to unwind after my long, exhausting day, I could hear Iggy groan as he sank into "his" bed—well, the one he and the Gasman would be sharing, at least. With two queen-sized beds to a room, it was handy that we didn't have, say, _nine_ kids that needed a place to crash. Then I'd have to hope that the couch by the sliding glass door that led out to the balcony was a sleeper sofa. Luckily for us all, we were only eight, so we fit snugly into four beds. Ahem.

I was just starting to doze off when I heard a mattress in the boys' room squeak loudly, and I gingerly picked my head up to see that Gazzy had taken a (not literally) flying leap and landed _hard_ on the stack of pillows he'd set up there on the bed, nearly bouncing Iggy right off onto the floor. Then he flopped over onto his back, hands behind his head as he chuckled darkly. Typical twelve-year-old boy. _Sigh._

"Did you guys even _see_ the look on the clerk's face when we came to check in?" he cackled. "Ohh, man . . . That was _hilarious_! She must've thought we were _nuts_ to try to cram eight kids in two rooms!"

"Of course she did!" Max replied as she settled down near me; we'd already agreed that Angel, Nudge, and Total could share one bed, and the two of us ancient female bird kids would share the other. "_Especially_ because it was eight grungy-lookin' kids like us."

"Who have wings hidden away," Derek interjected, rubbing his head with a towel so that his hair stood up like long, red-brown grass that looked . . . well, pretty darn cute. Max nodded in consent.

"That, too."

"But they're not obvious," said Fang from the guys' room, rather boredly tossing aside his _TV Guide_, "_and_ we don't have two heads."

"AND we only look scruffy before we take baths!" I agreed, sounding almost half-asleep.

Max muttered "Amen to that" before it got pretty quiet in the two rooms. I got off my stomach and lay back against the nice, soft pillow on my side of the shared bed, closing my eyes. Nudge was right about this; it _was_ nice. I, too, practically sank into the mattress, letting all my muscles just relax and go as limp as they possibly could. At that moment, all I wanted to say was "Screw you, Director" and "Screw you, Itex." For the time being, life was just too good to worry about anything else.

I lay there, eyes closed, for a few minutes, but I wasn't asleep. I mean, sure, I was _half_-asleep, but it wasn't the same thing. I'd lost all track of time but figured it to be maybe two in the afternoon or something. From where I was, I could hear the _tap_, _tap_, _tap_ of Fang's fingers dancing across the laptop's keyboard; did he _never_ put the thing away? Then again, maybe he was messing with his blog (stupidest word ever, I swear) like Total and Nudge had said that he did. I was just about to fall asleep and was even starting to dream a little bit when he suddenly interrupted my state of blissful lethargy.

"Anybody got any ideas how we're going to get at the School?" he asked, and I heard groans all around. Apparently _no one_ wanted to think of anything besides sweet, wonderful sleep and maybe food.

"No," Nudge moaned, shoving herself up as Total turned on the TV by squishing the power button on the remote with his fuzzy little paw. "I wanna sleep."

"We bomb the place out," Iggy suggested, and I stifled a laugh. Yeah, I knew he'd offer that idea.

"Too unsubtle," Max sighed. Angel looked over at her.

"Mind tricks?"

"Too risky."

"And I liked the bombing idea, too," Gazzy sighed, sounding a little depressed that we wouldn't be blowing up that hellhole.

I sat up on my elbows, blinking my eyes open and sighing. I glanced through the open connecting door and saw that Derek was sprawled out, fast asleep, at the foot of the bed Fang was sitting on. Wow. Somebody was exhausted . . . Then again, I didn't really blame him. First his programming had gone haywire that morning, then I'd flipped out . . . Yeah, it'd been a long, rough day, and it was only half over! But I decided that now was as good a time as any to plot out the School's demise. I wanted it to be something so spectacular that I'd have to go buy a camcorder just so I could record it and toss it up onto YouTube the next day. _That'd_ put a hitch in the Director's pantyhose—unless the attack blew her to hell in many little pieces.

"Whatever we do," I said, "is going to involve me and Derek, probably primarily."

"The other one which is currently asleep?" Max asked, pointing through the open door to Derek. "Most likely."

There was a faint snore from Derek as he rolled over, and Fang looked as if he were about to crack up laughing. I barely stifled my chuckle; I hadn't known that Derek snored. Maybe he only did on "special" occasions.

"Yeah, the sleeping beauty," I snickered. "Maybe we can make some sort of 'report' back to the witch. Or something. I dunno."

I tumbled back onto the mound of pillows behind me and sunk immediately into them, at once thinking over every little piece of intel I had—and that consisted of the School's blueprints to when the Director took her blood pressure medicine. Yes, the woman takes blood pressure medication. Try not to seem so surprised. It's not _that_ hard to imagine. Anyway, Max looked at me and nodded, and I thought I saw a touch of approval in her eyes.

"One of you open the door," she said, planning as she went, "we get in, the boys plant bombs, we fly out, and we all watch the fireworks."

"I like the plan!" Iggy enthused.

He rubbed his hands a little as he sat up, and the huge, beaming grin on his face left me feeling minorly trembly. What could I say? Either I was getting all girly all of a sudden . . . or I was getting all girly all of a sudden. My, look at all the options I had! Sarcasm . . . Anyway, I let this conspiratorial little grin cross my face as Gazzy sat up and chuckled wickedly.

"It's so perfect it can't _not_ work!" he grinned. "Oh, man, now to make the bombs . . ."

"Don't you have enough?" I asked, flopping onto my stomach again, feet knocking against the headboard. "But I agree; it'd have to work. Otherwise, we're majorly sunk. And heck, I'd really like to send the witch to her fiery lair."

"Here's where the power of Google is demonstrated," Iggy nodded, tilting his head in my direction even from, say, twenty feet away. "We'll look up stuff to make our best one yet. Though say, Gaz, remember BB?"

"Oh, who _doesn't_?!" Yep, those two were born-and-bred pyromaniacs. "Oh, man, we need to make another one of _those_ . . ."

"Then we're _all_ doomed," I sighed, "not just the bad guys!"

"Well," Max said slowly, "as long as they have the timer set right . . ."

"No problem!" Iggy answered as he pretty much waved her off. "Don't worry!"

For some reason, I found it really, _really_ easy not to worry because he'd said "don't." Don't "Aww!" just yet; it might not mean what you think. I mean, I'd been tucked in the Director's back pocket all my life; I certainly deserved a verbal security blanket now! Then again . . . it _could_ mean _exactly_ what you think. "Aww!" at will.

So we had the makings of a good plan. I leaned back, hands folded behind my head as Fang put the finishing touches on his blog update and zipped it off to loyal readers everywhere. I lay there for a long time thinking about what we were about to do. We were going to launch a grand assault on a practically impenetrable fortress that was home to hundreds of appalling experiments. The thought of it was like something out of a horror movie. I couldn't help but think back to the first time I was aware of my surroundings. Back when I was just a "fledgling," they made _me_ live in a dog crate, too—just like Max and her family. I got a large, and it wasn't because I was bigger than the other Mark Twos. It was just that I was picked for this _special_ mission and so was treated with a little more courtesy than the other were. Yeah, the thought was lovely, but I still got treated like crap. Everybody always waited for an opportunity to beat me up, but you know what? I beat them right back. Now I would get a chance to help blow them all to kingdom come, and that made me feel warm and fuzzy. Part of me even wanted to see if Batchelder were still keen on helping me out. I didn't trust him, but if he could help us . . . maybe he'd be worth talking to.

I turned and glanced at the TV screen there in the girls' room; Total was flipping through the channels faster than I would've imagined. I looked away again, staring up at the ceiling. Out of my good ear, I heard Nudge shout "Omigosh, was that Gwyneth Paltrow?! Quick, Total, go back! _Go back!!_" I couldn't help but roll my eyes and sigh as Total grumbled something not all that nice under his breath, but he went back to the channel Nudge had spotted. Nudge was silent for a minute or two before something on-screen made her moan "Ooh, cheeseburger . . ." Next thing I knew . . .

"Max . . . ?"

I stifled a snicker with the back of my hand as Max sighed.

"Yes, Nudge?"

"I'm _starving_."

"Me, too!" Total exclaimed, wagging his tail and gazing at Max with his big black eyes. Angel looked over at Max.

"Room service?" she asked.

There was an exasperated sigh from Max as she swung her legs over the edge of the bed and shuffled over to the desk in the room, where she found a room service menu and tossed it at Nudge. Iggy and Gazzy were hunting down bomb materials at the laptop in the next room, but Fang was eyeing the menu in there, too. Apparently Nudge and Total weren't the only starving ones around even though we'd had lunch not too long ago. Even I wasn't all that hungry, but Nudge's mention of a cheeseburger hadn't sounded all that bad . . . so Max and I agreed to split one. Nudge and Total decided to share a steak since one of those chunks of meat was _huge_, Angel chose a nice little piece of apple pie, and Iggy rather emphatically requested two orders of hot wings. I don't know what Fang got, because he was scribbling down our orders on a notepad as fast as we could call them out. He glanced over at Derek, who was still sound asleep.

"I wonder what the sleeping giant will want," he said, and I snickered under my breath.

"I'll save him some wings," Iggy said, and he and Gazzy went back to work. Then he looked up. "Would that be cannibalism for him?"

"No," Angel replied, settling back against her own pillow, eyes fastened intently to the screen; it looked like a movie.

"Not unless he's part chicken," Max added as she flopped back onto the bed next to me. I chuckled aloud.

"Well, my avian percentage is common house sparrow," I said, "so I guess anything can happen, eh?"

Max muttered an agreement as she crashed beside me, and I turned my attention to the movie on the TV. For once, I was able to look at a screen that wasn't pumping subliminal commands into me. I might've even been able to watch the movie and maybe even enjoy it if Max hadn't gotten my attention.

"Glad you're along," she said simply, and I looked over at her.

"Why?"

She shrugged, folding her arms as Fang called room service to put in our orders.

"You kinda deserve an even break," she replied. "And we need your help to knock the witch down a peg or two."

"Yeah, thanks," I sighed, "but I don't know what help I'll be. They say I was born totally emotionless."

I left off the bit about my no longer believing that pack of lies, and that left Max no alternative but to turn and stare at me, brows furrowed.

"Emotionless?" she asked. She didn't believe it any more than I did. "That's kinda impossible, you know."

"It's not all _that_ impossible when the woman who raised you had no feelings of her own," I answered with a dry bark of a laugh. "Not impossible when you've not been around real people at any point in your life."

"Point taken. So what about the dozing bird man over there?" She pointed through the door to Derek, and he was still fast asleep. He looked as if he'd been run over by a bulldozer. "He says that he knows Jeb, but he . . . he sure doesn't act it."

I gazed at Derek, sighing to myself. He deserved far more than he'd gotten. I couldn't help but feel as if I ought to try to make it up to him somehow. Poor guy . . .

"He . . . he actually _is_," I answered, voice kept low. "I don't know why or how, but . . . he can't feel anything. Except . . . he complained this one time of having a clenching in his chest whenever I . . ." I glanced around as if making sure I didn't have any eavesdroppers on my hands before leaning a little closer to Max's ear. "Whenever I even so much as looked at Iggy."

Max's eyebrows went up, and she looked at me just a bit disbelievingly. Yeah, _that_ went over well . . . I felt a warm flush rise in my cheeks; after all, I'd just basically had my first go at girl talk. Joy.

"Really?" she asked, and I nodded. "Can't feel a thing but that, huh? Sounds like he's jealous . . ."

"Sounds like," I nodded, and I realized that I had no idea what it felt like to be jealous. I'd only heard about it from movies and TV shows and had never actually experienced it. Then again, there was a whole host of things I'd heard of but hadn't experienced. Like sushi. Ahem. "But why? I ain't anythin' special. Just your average Mark Two with fourteen-foot wings, is all. Nope, nothing special there at _all_."

Of course, that bit about my wings not being special was complete sarcasm. I also wasn't sure if I were _really_ plain and ordinary. After all, I'd been hand-picked for this assignment (the one I threw to the wind, you'll recall), and I certainly was far from normal in terms of my genes. Three percent bird here, hello? Seriously, what were those guys _thinking_?! Maybe they _weren't_ thinking and that was where all the trouble had started. That certainly would make sense, right? Even brilliant scientists tend to get into mischief when they don't think. And you know who pays for their mistakes? Right. Us genetic freaks.

Anyway, Max looked at me as if I were batty, one eyebrow arched and arms crossed. Basically, she had this look of "Uh _huh_."

"You sure _ain't_ 'plain and ordinary' from what _I've_ seen," she said. "What I'd like to know is how Derek ended up like he is."

Heck, so would I! But there are just some things that don't have answers. Besides, if I were to go poking around in the Director's files or something like that, I'd probably end up seeing all sorts of nasty things that I wouldn't wanna think about, much less read! However, this was _Derek_ we were discussing. He was my _friend_. I guess I wanted to help him more than I ever had before. I sighed and looked over at the TV again; Nudge and Total still had their eyeballs practically glued to the screen, and as far as I could tell, it looked like an okay movie. Probably one of those that'd been out on DVD so long that every American owned a copy and the cable stations _still_ played it. Either that or a sequel had just been launched into theaters so they figured the common folk deserved to be brought up to date.

"I'd like to know why, too, Max," I murmured. "I swear. I just . . . I'm not even sure _he_ knows. I could . . . ask . . . Ask the folks who'd probably know . . ."

"How do you expect to do _that_?" Max replied. Then she lifted her finger as her tone took on sarcasm. "Oh, wait, I know." She mimed picking up a telephone. "'Hello, Itex? This is the ex-puppet. I'd like to speak with the head sadist, please.'"

Had I been drinking something (I dunno, like a Coke), I would've spewed it across the room when she said that. I nearly exploded with laughter because, well, I could just about do that!

"Close!" I snickered, and Max's eyebrows rose. Time to explain this. "See, I've got this implant in my brain that allows me direct communication to the Director. I don't know when I got it; probably when I was a baby. But I can control it with my thoughts. The brain waves trigger it, and the implant sends those waves to the head witch, where a special computer translates them into words on a screen. And, well, it's two-way. She can talk to me, too."

Max looked either disbelieving or completely floored; I couldn't be sure. I shrugged and let a wry smile quirk one corner of my mouth upward.

"I call it my in-brain cell phone—minus the touch screen and camera."

"Whew," Max marveled. "I thought they only made things like that in sci-fi movies."

She pointed across the room to the TV screen, and I mouthed an "Oh" of realization. I knew that movie . . . I'd gotten to watch the propaganda-filled version of the DVD when it'd come out _years_ ago.

"Yeah," I said. "It's no arc-reactor, and it gives me headaches. It does more harm than good, I guess. Personally, I'd like it out, but it was probably implanted so long ago that my brain has grown and developed around it. Consider it your permanent connection to the earth's biggest hellhole."

I offered a weak smile, and she just patted my shoulder. Then she inclined her head toward the open connecting door and, ultimately, Derek. He was still sound asleep on his stomach, red-tailed hawk-like wings spread across his back like a blanket. I knew then that I'd probably get a headache for calling the Director and demanding "Hey, what gives?" but I knew it was probably worth it. At least, I was willing to do that if it would help him get better. I figured he deserved that much from me. I spared a glance back at the TV observers. Nudge looked like she was about to faint at any moment, and Angel just looked as if she couldn't figure out why Nudge was on the verge of passing out. Then I looked up at the screen itself. Why couldn't I be a cool superhero with all sorts of neat, tricked-out gear? Instead, I was little old Project Delilah, a seventeen-year-old ticking time bomb with subliminal assassination programming and an evil implant that tended to give me headaches. _And_ a tattoo that contained a teensy tiny tracking device. Much joy. NOT. I looked back at Max and sighed.

"I'll do it," I said. "I'll call them. I'll ask what happened to Derek. I'm gonna get some answers and not more of the witch's runaround. Don'tcha just _hate_ corporations? They _never_ give a person straight answers."

I said that with a grin, and Max snickered under her breath. But then, before I got a chance to make the call, she looked thoughtful, and that stopped me.

"I wouldn't trust _them_ if my life depended on it," she mused. "I dunno if Derek would talk, though. Gah, I _hate_ problems like this."

"Tell me about it," I sighed. "Not being able to wave my magic wand over Derek and make him 'all better' makes me feel . . . helpless. _Useless._ But even if the witch didn't tell me the straight truth, maybe she'd drop a hint or two."

"Maybe she would." Max shrugged. "You can try."

I nodded and snuggled down amongst the pillows. Might as well get comfy, right? Besides, if I got a headache from this little endeavor, I'd appreciate my squishy surroundings. I closed my eyes as I tugged at my right ear, activating the implant. I felt the shock that meant "Hello, there, Delilah" in a nasty, antagonistic sort of way, and I took a deep breath.

_Hey, there, uh, _ma'am_. Listen, I know you probably don't want to talk to me, but I've got a question, and I want answers. Why is Derek the way he is?_

There was a long pause, and for a minute, I wasn't sure she'd reply. It looked as if I'd worn out my welcome with the Itex goons. Well, it had to happen sooner or later. I would've bet any amount of money that she was putting the executioners through a little extra training and preparation so they'd make a superbly messy job of ripping me limb from limb. There was a split second where I had a flashback to that awful dream-slash-vision I'd had. Then came something I hadn't really been expecting: a response.

_When he came in for therapy, he was put under a psychosis. I had a feeling that you weren't coming out perfectly, so he was going to be your backup. It was easier since Batchelder was gone._

Psychosis? Now if _that_ didn't sound like something out of a sci-fi movie . . . But she'd been using him as backup for me because _somehow_ she'd suspected I wouldn't be "perfect." I think I know where she got that, too. She'd always figured it didn't matter what movies or TV shows I watched as long as there were those subliminal Itex messages shoved into them. But guess what. Every once in a while, a different movie would show up in my collection—a movie with no messages. I'd always suspected that Batchelder had smuggled them in for me, because they were movies that showed me I could be better. I could survive this. I could _win_. That was when I started getting those thoughts of playing both sides against the middle, of escaping Itex and being free. Maybe I owed Batchelder something even if I were still wary of him. Maybe the Director had noticed the subtle change in my psych. Perhaps she realized that I was becoming aware of myself as a human being and that I was gradually developing feelings. Hm.

There was many a thing I wanted to say to her, and most of those things involved nasty four-letter words. However, if I wanted answers about Derek, I knew I had to tread carefully. I also knew that she was probably working toward setting me up to walk right into a trap, so I had to be careful there. I kept plunging ahead with this little chat anyway.

_Oh. So . . . since I wasn't totally emotionless, you made him that way. Can it . . . could it be reversed?_

That was the million-dollar question, folks. If she answered with "No," I'd know—or at least hope—that she was lying. If she answered with something that sounded relatively honest, I'd know she was leading me into a trap. Guess what she answered me with.

_Not unless you get access to specialized equipment._

Hey, Director! Do I have STUPID written across my forehead?! She must've thought my IQ was, like, fifteen. Honestly. The only place to find specialized equipment was at the School itself, and she must've figured that I wouldn't have called to ask unless I were planning to help Derek. Smart cookie, her, but she didn't do a very good job at the luring. However, I knew that we'd have to get Derek in there, fixed up, and back out again without getting in deep dirt. Yeah. That'd be problematic. I just decided to end this little chat and get about plotting the best way of helping Derek.

_Oh. Okay. Uh . . . thanks._

Then I closed off the connection, wincing at a mild stab of pain in my temple. Great. Maybe it'd pass fast enough. I turned and looked at Max, feeling relatively buried in my comfy collection of pillows.

"Well, I got an answer," I said, and she looked intrigued. "I'm not sure if it were a straight one or not, though. But the way she told it, he went in for therapy and was put under some psychosis thing since . . . I 'wasn't working out right.'" I rolled my eyes, and Max scoffed. I got serious in a hurry, though; after all, I had to help my friend! "But . . . she said it was easy to do that because Batchelder was gone. Thing was . . . before we left . . . I saw him. So unless he swooped in sometime _after_ Derek's 'treatment,' I'm being taken for a ride."

Max just nodded; it seemed to me as if that story made sense to her.

"He said he'd try to help break them down from the inside," she explained. Well, maybe it was plausible that Batchelder wasn't there one minute and popped back in the next. "But . . . therapy. Would it have happened when his wing was bad?"

"More than likely," I answered with a nod. "I can't think of any other time he would've needed it. And she said that it can't be reversed unless we get our hands on some special equipment."

I paused and looked right at her, and I saw a glint in her brown eyes that meant "I totally know what you're about to say."

"It's a trap," I decided, and she nodded slowly. "She knows I want to help him, knows I've been . . . changing. The way she figures, I'll wanna help him, I'll try to break in and fix it, and then . . ."

I slammed a curled fist into my palm to illustrate my point. If we tried to break in to help Derek, the Director would be ready and waiting—waiting to bring the hammer down. Max gave me one more nod.

"Definitely a trap," she agreed. "So, how would we actually get in and do it? If there is anything screwing up his mind, then I'd much like it out of the way."

"So would I," I said, nodding rapidly. "I guess I want him to have a chance, too. But how we'd get in when they're gonna be expecting us . . . That's the trick. Do you know anybody else who'd have access to stuff like that?"

Max grinned at me and nodded.

"Just gimme a sec."

Then _she_ snuggled down and closed her eyes, and I wondered if maybe she had one of those implants, too. I figured she didn't since I'd been told that mine was a prototype of brand-new, never-before-used technology. Lucky, lucky me.

Max's brows were furrowed, so I didn't ask anything or make much noise. I figured she needed all the concentration she could muster. So I just watched the movie for a few minutes, enjoying the fact that it was clean from any form of subliminal messaging. It was just like any ordinary seventeen-year-old girl would see it. I was just starting to get into the plot when Max shifted and blinked her eyes open. She looked at me with a slow nod.

"We've got some help."

Well, that was a relief. Sort of. I immediately had a feeling that Batchelder was our help, and I was as willing to trust him as I would the Director.

"Really?" I asked. "Who?"

Max didn't answer immediately because Fang was at the door tipping the bellboy who'd brought up our snacks. Nudge once more chimed in with a sentiment about her "starvation," but it was only half-hearted because her eyeballs were still glued to the TV. Iggy was up in an instant when Fang shut the door and brought our food inside, and Derek stirred as all the yummy food was distributed.

"That dinner?" he asked groggily, only half awake.

"C'mon, got some for ya," Iggy said, holding out a plate of hot wings.

Nudge and Total ran to get their steak as Angel more slowly fetched her pie, and Max got up to get the cheeseburger she and I would split. That thing was as big as my head! Guess we'd been smart to decide to share, eh? As Max and I bit into our burger halves, she finally answered my question.

"Yeah, we've got help," she said. "My father, Jeb. Yes, he really _is_ my dad."

Believe me when I said I nearly choked on my burger. I had to put it down so I could stare at Max. My eyes widened nearly to saucer-size. Batchelder was her _father_?! Okay, now I was officially terrified. No _wonder_ he tried to take care of her! No _wonder_ he looked at me as if I _were_ Max! I felt a pang of jealousy way deep down inside me because I wouldn't have minded having parents. I mean, I'd have somebody to love me pretty much unconditionally. Then again, that was what God was for, right? Right. Anyway, I couldn't help but stare in shock at Max. I most certainly had _not_ anticipated that!

"_Seriously?_" I asked. "You have a . .. a _dad_? Wow. I guess that's . . . wow. I mean, I know we all do. We wouldn't exactly be in existence if there weren't parents for us out there somewhere, but . . . you never expect to hear about them."

"Took me a while to get used to it," Max shrugged. "Technically, he and my mom aren't married; they only got together for _their_ good. Gave me over pretty much as soon as they could."

I nodded to myself as I went back to nibbling on my half of the giant cheeseburger that sure as heck beat out McDonald's. What Max had said sounded a little more like something I could wrap my mind around. Nope, I've never trusted the mysterious Dr. Jeb Batchelder. I probably never will. Call me crazy if you like, but I have a hard time trusting someone who just pops up behind me at random times. Besides, that "If no one else ever loves you, I will" ultimatum he'd delivered had left me pretty darn skittish. But I got to wondering about who _my_ parents were. Were they just scientists whose genes had been taken to create me, Itex's supposed ultimate weapon? Or were they real people from small-town America whose newborn baby girl had vanished mysteriously immediately after birth? I had an inkling that it was the first idea. I mean, why ever would the Director _not_ take the opportunity to personally create something as spectacular as I was supposed to have been? That made me wonder if maybe _she_ had donated the egg that became me. I doubted it, but it wasn't such a far-fetched thought. Well, maybe it was. I looked over at Max.

"I bet my parents are just a pair of scientists who gave up their respective genes because they were told to," I said. "Though I've been kind of mulling over the thought that the Director might . . . well . . ."

Be my evil, psychotic mother? Yeah. I trailed off, pretending I hadn't said anything, but Max gazed at me with a hint of sympathy in her eyes as she took a bite out of her burger half.

"She told me the exact same thing," she said. Well, _that_ sure made me feel a little better. Sort of. "I bet if she'd grabbed me before you, we'd be in opposite places right now."

She went back to munching on her burger, as did I. Nudge was _still_ staring, awestruck, at the TV. Or maybe it was _love_-struck. I managed to get a good look at the protagonist. Not a bad-looking guy. And she _was_ sixteen-ish, after all, so I guess she had to develop crushes _sometime_. But I sat there, pondering what Max had said and chewing just about as slowly as I could. Absently, I heard Nudge yell for the boys to turn their TV to the same movie because she was _certain_ that there'd be some awesome explosions.

I wasn't thinking about movies, explosions, or good-looking hero characters anymore, though. I was still thinking about what Max had said. What if we _had_ been born to opposite roles? Her in mine, I in hers . . . _I_ would be the world-famous Maximum Ride, champion of bird kids' rights. _I_ would be the one on the run for the lives of me and my ragtag family, trying to save the world by stopping the evil corporation responsible for such horrors as the Erasers. And _she_ would be Project Delilah, the assassin hand-bred by the Director _herself_, programmed to kill at a moment's notice without questioning that order. _She_ would be the almost robotic, almost emotionless Mark Two that had slaughtered her "batch" and hadn't cared at the time. I nearly jumped straight up when I realized that Max was watching me out of the corner of her eye as if waiting for me to respond. So I did.

"Huh." That was all I said. She nodded.

"Yes, exactly." She finished off her burger and wiped her hands off on her jeans. "Now, we're gonna spend a couple nights—the kids are _bound_ to want to go sightseeing again—and then we're flyin' down there."

"Down where?" Derek and Iggy asked simultaneously, and Max shrugged. She didn't need to explain that "down there" meant the School. Angel looked up at her.

"But we _are_ going to explore the city some more, right?" she asked.

"Of course," I answered. "I mean, a place as big as San Francisco is _bound_ to have all sorts of awesome things to see and do that aren't exactly on the beaten path. I guess our current mission objective is to find them!"

Nudge cheered before she went right back to—you got it—staring at the TV. Total bounced over, licked my face, and went back to Angel's loving arms. I just grimaced and wiped the doggie drool off my cheek. Ugh. Someday I'd have to make him stop doing that . . . But for the time being, I would be satisfied just to explore San Francisco and not worry about the Director coming down on me. Then again, she'd always loom over me, what with the tracker tattoo and all. But I'd prayed for courage; I'd prayed that I wouldn't be afraid anymore. I knew that prayer would be answered; don't ask me how I knew that because I just _did_.

As I polished off my half of the massive cheeseburger, I glanced through the open door at Derek and Iggy. Both of them were sharing the hot wings, and they'd been arguing over who'd eaten more. It was friendly bickering, though—no swinging fists or anything—so I didn't mind. But seeing both of them there put kinks all through my stomach. Why? I don't know. They were both my friends; I knew that. Maybe both of them were more than that to me, too. It was hard to imagine that I could like two guys at once, but, well . . . maybe I did. Derek glanced up at me, and I felt heat rise in my face as our eyes locked. Insert mildly romantic music here. Better yet—don't. We rather instantly looked the other way; apparently he was still thinking about the Sacramento Incident, too. But what's strange is that when I glanced at Iggy, I found myself secretly wishing that he and I could have that, too. Y'know—a nice, romantic kiss in some park somewhere. Yeah. You go right ahead and tell me that I'm losin' my mind because I know it! Then I got an idea.

Y'all remember how Angel can read minds, right? Well, I figured I'd exploit that little talent to my benefit. I waved her over to my side, and she scampered right over, settling down beside me and gazing at me with those—yep—angelic, big blue eyes of hers.

"Would you do me a favor," I asked, "even if it might _technically_ be spying?"

"Whatever!" she grinned at me.

I glanced around sneakily before leaning over to her and whispering in her ear that I wanted her to scan Derek and Iggy's minds and see what they thought of me. Pretty clever, huh? She tilted her head in interest before closing her eyes, and after a moment, she motioned me down to her level. I turned my right ear toward her, and she gave me all her intel.

"Iggy likes you," she whispered, "both as a friend and for being honest. Derek . . . He has a feeling about you, but . . . not really clear what."

Oh. So no "They're both head-over-heels for you"? Oh. Okay. That hadn't been _quite_ what I'd wanted to hear, but at least I was liked, right? I bit my lip and glanced through the open door before looking back at Angel again.

"It's because, well, Derek can't feel much," I explained. "Something _they_ did to him. But we're gonna fix it." I paused. "Anything else?"

Once more, Angel tilted her head, looking thoughtful.

"Iggy likes you," she whispered to me. "He wants to help you."

I blinked as if in shock, but then she got this knowing little grin on her face as she leaned in next to my ear again.

"I think he _really_ likes you."

Uh . . . what? Once again, heat rose in my face as I glanced through the connecting door. Well. I guess maybe I really liked him too. Hugging him earlier had made me feel a little fluttery in my stomach. It was as if I were turning into a freaking _teenager_ all of a sudden. I thanked Angel for the little bit of mind-reading, and she just beamed at me and gave me a huge hug before returning to her and Nudge's bed to watch more of the movie. I just fell back into my pillows, staring up at the ceiling and thinking of how kissing Derek had sent waves of warmth rushing all down my spine and how hugging Iggy had left me feeling as if I were floating. No . . . no way . . . This couldn't happen to me! This could _never_ happen to me! Angel just looked at me from across the room and grinned at me.

"Yes, it could. It could happen to anyone."

Yeah, like _that_ made me feel better.


	19. 18: Rooftop Rendezvous

**A/N:** Derek to _JaxSolo_, Del to me, everybody else to James Patterson. Warning: mild fluff ahead. XD

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**Chapter Eighteen – Rooftop Rendezvous**

Yeah, like we were gonna go sightseeing after our day had already been so long and utterly exhausting. We pretty much lounged around like good-for-nothing lumps, and not once did Nudge take her eyes off that TV screen. That movie kept her mercifully silent, though, so I guess it was a good thing. But when it ended and the credits sped past (as they tend to on TVs), she collapsed back onto her pillow with a loud, satisfied sigh and declared that she was in love. Max and I just looked at each other and rolled our eyes. Nudge was in love with a guy that was a walking assault vehicle in his spare time? Riiiight . . . Yeah, _that_ was a romance meant to last.

And so, as I said, we all lounged around like good-for-nothing lumps. For the most part, Gazzy and Iggy went about picking and choosing materials and recipes for making bombs while the rest of us were pretty much half-asleep. Now that the movie was over, Nudge would absolutely not shut _up_ about her new "lover," so we all ignored her until she eventually got up to shower. When she came back, she looked too sleepy to talk anymore, and Max and Angel took their showers one after the other. I saw the rest of the boys wander off to grab baths, too; apparently, if there's one thing on-the-run bird kids enjoy, it's a hot shower. Then we all crammed into our respective bathrooms to brush our teeth and the like. Don't look so surprised: the Director _did_ send me along with a toothbrush and tube of toothpaste in my backpack, and Max made her crew carry the same.

When _that_ was finished, we all practically looked like zombies as we collapsed into our beds. Angel and Nudge fell asleep pretty rapidly in their shared bed, Total splayed out across their feet. Max had her back turned to me while I slept on mine—well, lay on it, at least. As tired as I was, I just couldn't get to sleep. My thoughts raged around the Director, Itex, Derek, and Iggy. Oh, why couldn't life as a mutant freak be _simple_? As I stared up at the ceiling, arms folded across my middle, I heard shuffling coming from the guys' room. I sat up slightly to see Derek drag spare pillows and blankets out of the chest-of-drawers in there and haul them out onto the balcony jutting out from the room. Apparently he didn't like being in closed quarters, and I didn't blame him. It was probably _very_ nice to sleep outside in warm, balmy weather with a gorgeous star-studded sky overhead. Ahh, California. Home of gorgeous weather.

I eased out of my side of the bed, ever so careful not to disturb Max, and padded over to the sliding-glass door that opened to reveal the balcony off our room, too. Carefully, I slid the door open and stepped out onto the balcony, letting the night breeze wash over me. The day was still churning through my mind; it was next to impossible _not_ to blame myself for everything that had happened. If I hadn't refused my assignment, Derek's programming wouldn't have been triggered. If his programming hadn't gone off, my secret wouldn't have been found out. And if my secret hadn't been discovered . . . well, I figured I might not be very welcome with the Flock. So maybe that _was_ a good thing. But still . . . None of this would've ever happened if the Director hadn't been such a conniving witch! Ultimately, everything was _her_ fault. Maybe Max had been right and I was just a pawn she'd been using. Actually, I'd known that all along. I'd always known that when I was no longer useful, I'd be exterminated like some insect. Just squashed beneath the heel of an Eraser's boot. Get my meaning? I sighed, pressing my palms against the balcony's rail and leaning out.

"I wish, I wish, upon a star," I said, "that _she_ would get hit by a car."

Next to me, I heard Derek chuckle, so I looked over at him. He was lounging there, hands behind his head, eyes latched onto the stars as if he were trying to count them. See what sheltered little bird kids are like? We end up being oh-so-very intrigued by something that most folks take for granted: the stars. Let's face it, folks: we didn't get out much back at the School—ever, really.

"Here, here," Derek murmured, and I smiled at him.

"Get squeezed out?" I teased. It would've been one thing if all four boys had tried to cram into one bed, but there had been two. He just smirked, playing along.

"Half the reason," he said. "And it's not bad out here."

"No, it's not," I agreed. "In fact . . . it's gorgeous."

As if I were being thanked for bestowing praise upon the weather, a nice, gentle breeze drifted across me, lightly tousling my hair and making me sigh. Then I got an idea. If it were this nice here on the balcony, how much nicer would it be up on the hotel's roof? I mean, we were almost up there, anyway—like tenth floor or something. How hard would it be to jump off the balcony and fly up there? Ahh, thank goodness for wings. Without them I'd be pretty well grounded. I flicked a slightly conspiratorial glance at Derek.

"Wanna go sit on the roof?"

Derek looked at me only a moment before scrambling up from his makeshift cot, climbing up onto the balcony's railing. He gave me a two-fingered salute.

"See ya there."

Then he jumped off the railing and fell down rather rapidly, but then he soared upward, giant red-brown wings flapping silently in the night. I climbed up onto the railing shortly after he did, letting myself free-fall for only a second before I snapped out my rich, golden wings and let the breeze carry me heavenward. I wondered to myself if anyone were still awake in the hotel, if they had their curtains open, and if they saw us out there cruising around. I snickered under my breath; boy, wouldn't _that_ shock some folks if they saw two teenagers _flying_ in the middle of the night.

I soared upward, the wind rustling the feathers on my wings, for a few minutes, climbing high above San Francisco with Derek. I grinned at him, and he gave me a little smile in return—a smile that looked almost genuine. Maybe he was developing feelings after all! We cruised up there for a while before angling back down toward the hotel roof; it was _very_ satisfying to be flying up there at night in our bare feet and blue jeans. I sailed onto the roof, careful to practice what I'd learned about nice, controlled landings, and settled myself on the edge of the roof. I leaned back on the heels of my hands as I let my legs dangle off the edge, and I sighed to myself. Derek stayed airborne a little longer, obviously relishing flight, before he swooped down and sat down beside me. Our wings were relaxed and hanging loosely out, and we were so close that the feathers brushed against each other.

"Ahh, I love flying at night," Derek sighed, the night breeze blowing through his shaggy hair.

"Me, too," I nodded, gazing out across the nighttime vista that was San Francisco. "I guess that's why I don't wish to have no wings at all."

I turned slightly and gave him a little smile, but this time, he didn't return it. Instead, he just sucked in a slow, almost pained breath, and I realized too late what I'd said.

"Yeah," he murmured. "Being without wings, without flight . . . it's like death."

I sighed and bowed my head; dammit, that'd been stupid to say. Of _course_ he didn't ever wish that he didn't have wings! He'd almost been permanently grounded because that stupid Eraser had ripped him to shreds! Anybody who mentioned anything about _not_ flying made him remember those long, painful months of being stuck on the ground. I wondered if maybe he'd stared out the windows of the School, trapped inside its walls, only to see _me_ going for glorious test flights, my one opportunity for relative freedom. That had to have hurt him far worse than I could ever imagine. He must've been so upset, so insanely jealous that he couldn't be out there, either. I reached over to take his hand, stopping myself just before I grabbed it. Instead, I shoved my hand under my knee, telling myself that we would _not_ have another Sacramento Incident.

"I'm sorry, Derek," I said, being as genuinely sorry as I could be. "I forgot."

"It's all right," he sighed, shifting slightly on his perch—and somewhat close to _me_, I might add. "I'm . . . still getting over it. I don't expect people to remember."

"I would. I mean, that was a _huge_ chunk cut out of your life, and for what? Training to make you 'better'? 'Stronger'?"

He limply shrugged one shoulder as I sighed to myself. I'd asked him up to the roof because I'd wanted to tell him what I knew. I had to get this out. He _deserved_ to know what _they_ had done to him, why he was suffering.

"I know why you can't feel anything," I stated, rather calmly considering the circumstances. "At least . . . I think I do. Whether or not it's the whole truth, I'm not sure."

Derek turned and glanced at me, and I thought I saw heightened interest and curiosity, if not slight fear, in his eyes.

"What d'ya mean?" he asked. "They . . . _they_ did something to me?"

I nodded.

"She—_the Director_—said that . . ." I paused, taking a deep breath. "That when you came in for therapy on your wing that . . . that they worked some sort of psychosis over on you. Deadened the feeling centers in your brain."

Derek froze at that little revelation, and his fists clenched. He seemed almost _angry_, and I wouldn't have blamed him one bit if he were! Itex had _no_ real right to be screwing with his brain like they had; he _was_ still human! He still had rights, even if _they_ didn't think so. Just shows what their intelligence levels are. It also proves who didn't have any moral training. _Sigh._

"They . . . they did that?" he asked, voice almost hushed. "How . . . can it . . . can we . . ."

Can we fix it? I would try. I'd do anything for my friend. Wow. I really _did_ go through a complete 360 in character. He looked so helpless, so _hopeless_, that I went right ahead and grabbed his hands, dragging my bare feet underneath me as I stared right at him. I was squeezing his hands as hard as I dared as I looked him right in the eye.

"We _are_ going to get it fixed," I promised. "We're going to break in, reverse it. I don't . . ." I paused, sighing to myself. "I don't want to see you suffer."

Derek stared at me, squeezing my hands back, and it seemed as if he were trying to wrap his battered, abused mind around all this. Yeah, I'd leveled him with a whole lotta shock, but he deserved an even break, too.

"If . . . if you could . . ." he managed. "Then . . .I dunno how I'd . . . after _so long_!"

My brows furrowed—in concern, I guess. All sorts of new, unfamiliar emotions had been bubbling up all day long, so it was anybody's guess as to what I'd feel next. But I somehow just _knew_ that it was concern I felt. I just wanted him to be okay! Seriously, was that _too_ much to ask?!

"You'd learn again," I told him. "I guess . . . I guess you might seem almost . . . well . . . _hormonal_, at first, but then . . . it'd work out." I paused, not easing the pressure I was putting on his hands. "I promise."

Derek looked at me and sighed, nodding slowly as he continued to squeeze my hands equally hard.

"Thanks, Del," he whispered. "I don't know how I'd end up if there wasn't somebody poking me in the right direction."

"Sure," I replied, grinning slightly. "I mean . . . you're my friend."

Or was he . . . something else? I couldn't be sure. After hearing what Angel had had to say . . . and the clenching in his chest that he'd mentioned . . . I was beginning to wonder just what we were. Could it be that I was going head-over-heels for two guys at once? I'd like to see one of those teenage girl magazines cover _that_ in their relationship section.

I couldn't stop myself over what happened next. Maybe I'd wanted to . . . Oh, hell, I did _not_. I reached over and wrapped my arms around his neck, hugging him as gently as I could. For the life of me, I couldn't figure out what was wrong with me, but . . . did it really matter? He went almost as stiff as a board before relaxing and hugging me in return. His hold on me tightened as the minutes dragged past, so mine tightened on him accordingly. The way I figured it, we both needed someone to cling to, and, well, here we were! "A friend in trouble is a friend always" or whatever the expression is.

It felt as if I were hugging him for _ages_ before I finally let him go. He just looked at me, eyes almost silently saying "Thank you," and then I _really_ couldn't help myself. I took his face in my hands and kissed him as hard as I dared, not exactly caring what anybody thought. Besides, we were up there by ourselves; nobody would know. I was surprised to feel him kiss me, too, but . . . well . . . When I backed away, he looked as surprised as I felt. I felt heat rise to my face; my cheeks must've been the color of ripe tomatoes. Nonetheless, I offered him a heartfelt little smile as I dropped off the edge of the roof, my wings keeping me from going splat. I felt his eyes glued to my back as I vanished, descending to the balcony off the girls' room once more. I tried desperately _not_ to think about what'd just happened up there on the roof, how I'd felt . . . but that was next to impossible. How could I _not_ think about it? I mean, I'd just kissed him twice in one day and didn't know quite why I'd wanted to? It couldn't be _love_, could it?

When I landed on the balcony, I slipped inside the room, shut the door, and pulled the curtains back into place. Then I slithered back under the covers on my side of the bed, not making even the tiniest sound. But even after that little night flight, I still couldn't sleep. Crap . . . Something was running around in my head like a hamster in its wheel. Thinking about Derek, still sitting up there on the roof, and how all of us were gonna try to help him almost overwhelmed me. The thought of how we'd been up there made it worse. And then glancing through the open door to where Iggy slept, his strawberry-blond hair poking up over the top of the covers, made it _way_ worse. He, too, gave me that nervous fluttering in the pit of my gut. The words _love triangle_ popped into my mind. What if— Oh, no. Ohhh, _no_. I'd only been in "real" civilization for a few days! Not me. Not _that_ fast. That was impossible and insane. No way.

I knew I had to get some sleep _sometime_, so I snapped my eyes shut and tried to concentrate on getting still and quiet. I tried to think of something _other_ than Iggy and Derek, but it was _so_ hard to do that. Eventually, I forced myself to conjure up mental images of the School and the Director going up in flames, and that brought me some measure of comfort as I finally drifted off to sleep.

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_A/N again: Har, har, Nudge the Tony Stark fangirl. Man, that's such a hilarious mental image..._


	20. 19: We the Tourists

**A/N: **Derek to _JaxSolo_, Del to me, everybody else to James Patterson. Sorry this is such a short chapter; next one will have some fluff and a new development to the plot! "Hurray!" you're saying. "T92's getting back to the plot! Less fluff, more plot development!" XD Yep, so it will be. Enjoy!

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**Chapter Nineteen – We the Tourists**

Ever had one of those nights were it takes you _forever_ to doze off, and when you finally do, it seems as if it's suddenly morning? Yeah. That was _my_ night. It seemed as if I'd only gotten five minutes of sleep when _wham!_ In came the morning sunlight. When I came around, the first thing I felt was someone poking me in the shoulder. I gingerly cracked an eye open, nearly whimpering something about the bright sunlight, and guess who was poking me? Right. Nudge. Yeah, you saw that one comin' from ten miles away, eh? She was grinning from ear to ear; I figured maybe she'd dreamed of her walking tank "lover." Pfft.

"C'mon, Del!" she sang out. "We're goin' out today, gonna see some sights!"

I groaned, eyelids still excruciatingly heavy. All around me, I heard the tell-tale sounds of folks gradually forcing themselves awake. From the next room came Fang's voice; he sounded as exhausted as I felt.

"Oh, let her sleep," he sighed. "We don't all have your boundless energy, Nudge."

"Darn straight," I mumbled in whole-hearted agreement.

I rather willingly tugged the blankets back over my head and snapped my eyes shut as I heard Iggy mutter something incoherent; guess he wasn't feeling like a morning person, either. But then my eyes shot open as I heard Derek's voice.

"Mornin', all," was all he said.

There were a few weak greetings before I heard Max sigh and felt her shift her weight on the mattress.

"Nudge, we _don't_ have to be movin' at the crack of dawn," she grumbled, and I would've shouted "Amen, sister!" if I'd had the energy.

"Aw, c'mon," Nudge pleaded. "Sunrise is when everything is so gorgeous . . . The light on the Golden Gate Bridge . . . Oh!"

She swooned a bit over-dramatically, and I chuckled under my breath. And then it was silent. I was tucked happily into my bed, snuggled warmly under the covers. Aw, man, it was _nice_. If only I could have that luxury every day of every year. Now _that_ would be worth just about anything. And so I was nestled cozily under the covers, wrapped up like a cocoon . . . and then my warm blankets were suddenly gone and I was very, very cold.

"Hey!" I called out, still sounding groggy. I heard Nudge-esque giggling. Guess I knew who the little thief was. "Give those blankets back or I'll e-mail Robert Downey, Jr. and tell him you're madly in love with him."

Nudge went "Eep!" but relinquished my blankets to me. Ahh . . . But then she paused and I heard her muse, "Actually, that might not be so bad." I rolled my eyes and snuggled down deeper; it was _so_ nice . . . Beside me, Max sighed.

"What about sun_set_?" she suggested to Nudge.

That seemed to go over well. Nudge was silent for a minute or two before I heard the squeak of the other mattress as she sat down on the bed she, Angel, and Total all shared.

"Okay," she agreed. "We can go out then. It's _much_ more romantic then, anyway."

"Unless somebody jumps," Fang said coolly, and I smothered a hard snort of laughter with my pillow as Nudge practically radiated shock.

"Oh, Lord, Fang!" she gasped. "Gosh!"

I could've sworn I felt Max grin wickedly; or maybe that was my own reaction and she was just chuckling. I heard Derek snicker under his breath.

"I thought we would be traveling the not-so-beaten paths looking for little-known treasures," he said. I sighed, poking my head up over the covers just a little bitty bit.

"Treasures are good," I mumbled. "We might discover the next wonder of the modern world."

Nudge seemed totally enamored with the idea of tracking down unknown tourist spots. Well, if they were unknown, they wouldn't technically be tourist spots, would they? That didn't stop her. Just the thought of discovering something awesome before anyone else got the chance was enough for Nudge. I snuggled back under the blankets for another minute or two as Max pushed herself up; I figured she was getting back into the role of being leader and den mother, and I was just grateful that job didn't belong to me! In the next room, the Gasman was still out. _Hard._ But we were all gradually getting up and going, and Derek took up a post in the connecting doorway.

"So, we calling up breakfast or going out?" he asked, and for a minute, I thought I felt his gaze latch onto the blanket-covered lump that was me.

"Ooh, can we go try somethin' totally new?" Nudge asked. "Can we go find some really neat restaurant somewhere with huge breakfast entrees? Because, I mean, Del's got that card from Itex, and I just think it'd be really cool if we were spending _their_ money to do stuff that's _good_ for _us_, y'know?"

"I love that idea," Max grinned, gently prodding my shoulder in a silent "Get your butt outta bed, Del!" "Let's go!"

I was about to protest, saying we all had to get dressed and the like when I heard Angel pipe up. She, too, sounded just a little bit sleepy.

"Can we go to Tiffany's?" she asked. "Like in the movie?"

"I think that was in New York, sweetie," Max replied with a sigh.

I sighed and finally pushed myself up, hair messed completely up. Then again, it's _always_ messy. I blame the way I cut it. I looked over at Angel and gave her a smile before proceeding to explain that the movie was called _Breakfast at Tiffany's_ because Tiffany's was a big department store—yes, in New York—and Holly Golightly went window-shopping there—often with breakfast in her hand. Yes, I saw that movie, too; _do_ try not to be _quite_ so surprised. I may sometimes have the table manners of a savage, but that doesn't mean that I'm not well-versed in movie trivia! And, well, Google helps.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed, trying to get myself fully awake in time for breakfast. Dang, a cup of coffee—or three—sure would be nice . . . and I mean _regular_ coffee and not that wimpy decaf stuff. Although . . . there's not a whole lot more hyper than a caffeinated bird kid. Meh heh. But as I was sitting there, wishing for coffee, I heard Derek snap his fingers, and I glanced up to see a grin on his face.

"I have an idea," he said. "Why don't we go down to Los Angeles? I wouldn't mind seeing some Hollywood history."

Rather simultaneously, Angel and Nudge bounced up and squealed, "Oh, could we?!" Then they both looked at Max for confirmation, and she nodded. Next thing I knew, both girls had positively leaped onto Derek and were hugging him; I looked up and grinned at him, and he grinned right back! Imagine that. I got something of a warm, fuzzy feeling but ignored it as I padded into the bathroom to get cleaned up. A few minutes later, I was back out with my face washed, hair neatened, clothes tidied, and windbreaker zipped up over my Ghirardelli shirt. I'd even brushed my teeth because, well, when you're staying in a hotel with seven other people, you don't exactly want to kill them all with a gust of halitosis. Just a word to the wise.

When I came out, Gazzy had finally gotten up, and he, Derek, and Fang were all crowded around the sink in the boys' bathroom, armed with washcloths and toothbrushes. Iggy was still fast asleep, and I looked over at Max, motioning through the now half-open door.

"Shall I awaken the sleeping giant?" I asked with a smirk, and she chuckled.

"Might as well!"

So I slipped through the door and into the guys' room; the bathroom door was shut, but I could hear the threesome arguing over who was hogging the most sink space. Ahh, so girls _aren't_ the only ones to argue over bathrooms, eh? I smothered my grin and crossed the room to Iggy, who was flopped so haphazardly that I nearly didn't get my snicker choked back in time. One leg was hanging off the bed, and just about the only part of him that was visible was his hair. I gently nudged his shoulder.

"Hey, sleepyhead," I said softly. "Time to get a move on."

There was a groan and a mumbled "Don' wanna . . ." I grinned; this was a kid after my own heart! Back at the School, even though I'd sometimes wanted to sleep the day away, I'd _always_ had to get up at the crack of dawn. No wonder I have such a screwy personality. I nudged him a little harder.

"C'mon, Ig," I said. "We're gonna go to Hollywood."

Had I been expecting him to bounce up and squeal "Oh, my gosh, _Hollywood_?! Starlets! Quick, let's go!"? Maybe. I don't know. But whatever I'd been expecting, I didn't get. He just groaned and flopped over in the other direction; this time, his face was barely visible out from under the covers and his hair since it'd flopped into his face. I sighed and looked down at him before glancing around. The other three were still busy in the bathroom—still debating over sink space, I might add—and the other girls were off getting dressed, too. They couldn't possibly see me and what I was about to do. I brushed his hair from his cheek and tugged the covers down before taking a deep breath and leaning down. The next second, I kissed him on the cheek and, boy, did I feel daring! That did it. He was struggling to sit up, looking just as groggy as possible, and I stepped back.

"Mornin', sunshine," I said playfully. Iggy forced himself up, rubbing at his eyes and blinking himself awake. His head turned slightly in my direction.

"Del? That you?"

"In the flesh."

He was silent for a minute as he brushed a hand across his cheek. I felt my face grow minorly warm but reminded myself that it'd been perfectly innocent.

"Oh, hi," he said, running a hand through his hair. "I hear somethin' about Hollywood? We goin' there?"

"Of course we are!" Nudge exclaimed suddenly. I wheeled about and saw that she was standing in the open doorway, expression totally dreamy. "The Walk of Fame, Grauman's Chinese Theatre, and . . . and . . ."

I snickered under my breath and went back to the girls' half of this room arrangement as she sighed deeply, but then Nudge clapped her hands together and squealed.

"And the MOVIE STARS!" she gasped. "I'm gonna have to get an autograph book . . ."

Guess what, folks? Even _Max_ looked excited at the prospect of meeting movie stars! And me? Well, I just _knew_ which one Nudge would hunt down. Ha, ha. As the boys filed out of the bathroom, all (relatively) neat and tidy, Nudge proceeded to tell them all about what we would spend our day doing even though it'd been Derek's idea to start with (yes, she mentioned that bit, too). Fang's eyebrows went up at the mention of movie stars; was he thinking of all the young starlets? I certainly hoped not because, from what I could tell, he liked Max—a lot. Anyway, Nudge was nearly bouncing off the walls with glee.

"Omigosh this is gonna be so awesome!" she squealed. "We're gonna be, like, _right there_! Practically _touching_ them!"

"And I'm gonna get to see Angelina Jolie!" Total swooned. I rolled my eyes. That dog was _way_ too much. Besides, I figured Ms. Jolie would be off in Africa doing good or some such or maybe raising her herd of adopted kids, _not_ signing autographs for a Scottie.

"Well, let's get a move on!" Derek said, motioning to the door. "Potential movie-star day, comin' right up!"

Within a matter of minutes, we were all out of the hotel, backpacks on our shoulders (ever ready, us), and headed for breakfast. The whole time, we jabbered over what all we wanted to do once we hit Hollywood. Yes, even I wanted to go. I was getting to take a vacation, for crying out loud! Of _course_ I was eager to see all the sights! So, yes, I put forth ideas for stops along our route. We decided we'd fly up to the Hollywood sign (there were a few snickers from the boys at the mention of that sign) and take pictures. Oh yeah.

And, for Nudge's sake, I fervently hoped that Robert Downey, Jr. was a really, _really_ nice guy blessed with _much_ patience.


	21. 20: Golden Gate

**A/N:** Derek to **JaxSolo**, Del to me, everybody else to James Patterson. Yes, there's fluff and relationship issues, but there's also some stuff critical to plot advancement! Hoo-rah!

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**Chapter Twenty – Golden Gate**

The man was drinking coffee. COFFEE. He looked far too relaxed to merit our siccing Nudge on him. _C'est la vie_—that's life.

Nudge saw him first. No, I tell a lie—_I_ saw him first. But then I looked the other way and pretended I hadn't seen anyone, but the squeal from Nudge and the exasperated sigh from Max told us all that, well, Nudge had followed my gaze _way_ too fast. It went a little something like this: Nudge gasped and clasped her hands together, the pupils in her eyes being suddenly replaced by pulsing cartoon hearts.

"Max!" she swooned. "Oh, Max . . . It's him! It's really him! It's Robert! Omigosh!!"

She started racing off toward her idol, but Max and I reached out and grabbed her arms, dragging her back. The rest of us formed a circle around her as Max listed the rules of engagement for meeting movie stars: no squealing, no cooing, no talking in long sentences that were was fast as the TGV over in France, no bouncing up and down, and _definitely_ no high-pitched cries of "Omigosh, I LOVE YOU!" I almost couldn't keep a straight face as Nudge nodded rapidly in agreement, swearing to be good and civil and not annoy the man, whom I pitied because he was about to be Nudge-ified. Nudge even promised with that "cross my heart and hope to die" thing, and when she said that, I cringed visibly. Derek just gave my shoulder a supportive squeeze before we started casually toward that little café.

The curious thing about our taking an actor by surprise is that we actually did it very, very well. For one thing, we didn't sneak up behind and scare the crap outta him by going "HIIIIIII!" Nudge handled herself quite well, and I got a minor case of the "Ohh, gosh, we're talking to a freaking _movie star_!" twitters. I also kept an eye out for pesky paparazzi, of which there were none; I only watched for them because I didn't exactly want my picture to end up on the front page of _US Weekly_. Anyway, where was I? Oh, yeah. Nudge handled herself well. She walked calmly up, double-checked his identity by asking sweetly "Mr. Downey, Jr.?" Then she introduced herself and us, and we all nodded before happily letting her do all the talking as she explained that she liked his work very, _very_ much. That's her specialty, y'know—doing all the talking. I just stood there, hands in my windbreaker pockets, and watching. I saw a faint pink flush come to Nudge's dark cheeks, but she didn't go on a fangirl-like squealing spree. That was my undeniable proof that there really is a merciful God. Anyway, she dug out her autograph book and politely asked if she could have one; her wish was granted, and as her idol scribbled out his name on a blank page, Nudge looked at us, this _huge_ grin lighting up her face. Then she gushed out about five or so rounds of "Thanks so much!" before gathering up the guts to ask if we could get a picture, too. She handed her camera to a passerby and asked him to snap the photo as _the_ Robert Downey, Jr. stood up and Nudge scampered to his side. By now, I was in total shock. It takes a brave man to handle a Nudge attack, after all! But then Nudge waved the rest of us over, saying how "It isn't fair if you guys aren't in the picture, too!" So the rest of us walked over, formed a neat little semicircle, and smiled our best for the camera. That guy Nudge had handed her camera to snapped two shots—in case one turned out badly, y'see—before handing it back and going on his way. Nudge said "Thank you" about fifteen million more times before we left, and as soon as we were out of that poor, now-Nudge-ified actor's earshot, she let out an ear-splitting squeal as she excitedly jumped up and down, clutching her camera and autograph book to her chest.

"Omigosh, omigosh, omigosh!" she screeched. "I got his autograph! I actually got it! And a _picture_! This is the happiest day of my life!"

Max and I just looked at each other but didn't say anything; we knew the importance of getting to feel out-and-out _normal_ every once in a blue moon. Total bemoaned not yet having gotten to see Angelina Jolie up close and personal-like, and the rest of us couldn't think of who our favorite actors and/or actresses were. Oh well.

So we spent the day in Hollywood and L.A., walking around and catching all the major attractions. Nudge filled up another three disposable cameras along the way (one was filled just during the tour of all the old-time stars' homes, I might add) and was _very_ careful to keep the one containing that specially obtained photo tucked in a safe place in her backpack. Every time we had a moment in which we weren't doing a thing, she'd sigh to herself and say dreamily "I got his _autograph_ . . ." It took me a while, but I eventually came to the realization that, hey! I'd just had my own picture taken with a famous movie star! Not too bad if I do say so myself.

Okay, so, after a long day of playing tourist, the eight of us took to the skies once more and headed back for San Francisco. The whole way, Total complained about his not having gotten to lick Angelina Jolie's hand, but the rest of us were in _such_ good moods that we didn't once tell him to shut up; he did so on his own. Lucky us. Ha, ha. Even Derek seemed a fair bit more cheerful than he had in San Francisco; I suspected that was because he'd gotten a glimpse of Catherine Zeta-Jones as she came out of a little boutique down in Hollywood. And Iggy and I were just as content as could be because, well, we'd all sneaked into the wrap party for some movie or other, and Iggy and I had had cheesecake to _die_ for—not literally die, of course. That was my personal favorite event of the outing because it was just him and me with a plate of cheesecake and two forks. We talked a little, and I found myself reminded of how the scars on my arms had vanished after I'd touched them. Those had been minor injuries; maybe, if I did indeed have some sort of healing ability, I could practice and eventually learn enough control to be able to heal Iggy's eyes. _Maybe._ I figured I should at least experiment to find out if I actually had a healing power; I mean, after all, most of the other Flock kids did. How else did you think Angel read minds?

So we all flew back to San Francisco in record time, making it back to the Golden Gate Bridge in time for sunset—just like we'd promised Nudge. There, we came to a nice, graceful landing not too away from the bridge before we walked up to it. Nudge was, once again, snapping pictures all over the place. I just shook my head, letting my hair catch and flutter in the evening breeze. Yeah, my life was pretty good right then. I mean, I still had money to burn, I didn't see any robots on the horizon, and I'd had cheesecake to _die_ for. Yeah, that's all it took to make me declare my life to be "good."

Anyway, when we got there, Angel practically dragged Max and Derek to the bridge, urging the rest of us to hurry up so we wouldn't miss the way the sunset looked on the bay and on the bridge itself. Fang, Nudge, and Gazzy followed suit, Nudge leading that trio and Gazzy not too far off her tail. Fang wandered a little closer to Max, and I noticed that he looked, well, _cheerful_. Yeah, Fang. Remember him? The Laptop King? Yeah. That's the one. Him, cheerful. Sorry, that was just so _strange_ at the time. I watched the younger kids race to the edge of the bridge and start going "Ooh!" at the view, and I chuckled under my breath.

"You'd think they haven't seen a sunset before," I murmured, feeling Iggy slip up alongside me. Ooh, damn, yet another nerve-wracking close encounter . . . Curses! "Well, at least not from the Golden Gate Bridge."

"No, I don't guess they have," Iggy replied quietly, and I realized . . . great. I'd made another stupid slip of the tongue, just like I'd done last night with Derek. I turned and sighed, reaching for his arm.

"I'm so sorry," I said. "If I could fix it . . ."

Iggy sighed and reached over, putting his hand on top of mine. I felt chills run down my spine. _Oh, Lord, not again . . ._

"Yeah. I know you would."

That was all he said. We stood there in silence for a long time, away from the others, backs turned to them. I watched the sunlight glisten on the water for a while, listened absently to the mild ooh-ing and aah-ing coming from behind us. I didn't much blame the others for being impressed; the sun was a huge, orange ball set in a glowing crimson sky, scattering gold across the crystal-like surface of the bay. Hey, look; I waxed poetic. Guess there's some human emotion in me after all. But, sarcasm aside, it was absolutely _gorgeous_. I just wished I could share it with Iggy and decided that, hey, it couldn't hurt to _try_. I turned to him, touching his shoulder and getting him to turn toward me.

"There's something I think you oughtta know," I said, keeping my voice low for one reason: I didn't want Nudge interfering. "The other day, the morning before Derek's . . . _programming_ . . . went off, I had scars on my arms. But then . . . then I rubbed them, and my hands . . . well, they got warm and seemed as if they were glowing. And then . . . then there weren't scars anymore."

Iggy was silent for a few minutes before his eyebrows gradually rose.

"So . . . you think you've got some kind of healing power?"

"Well, Angel reads minds," I offered with a weak chuckle. "What next, huh?

I laughed nervously, and Iggy just gave me a wan smile. It felt almost as if I could feel what he was thinking and wondering: "Can she heal my eyes?" and "Would she if she can?" I sighed thinly and took his hand, squeezing it.

"Iggy," I said quietly, "I don't know if I can heal your eyes permanently. The scars on my arms were minor compared to this. I don't know even if it were my healing skill—if it exists—or if it's some super-rapid-healing implant I got from _them_. But . . . I'd be willing to try. I might not be able to do more than let you see the sunset tonight, but . . ."

To my surprise, he turned his head toward me and reached out a hand for my face, sighing to himself.

"I think I'd like to see your face."

Okay, I was floored. He just wanted to see _me_? Not the sunset? Hell, I'd throw in the sunset as a bonus just because I was so shocked that anybody would be interested in _me_. Apparently Angel had been right: he _did_ like me a whole lot. But I got myself calmed down and nodded.

"Bear with," I said, putting one hand on either side of his face, "because I don't know what the hell I'm doin'."

He gave me one quick, nervous smile before I gently eased him down closer to me and touched my forehead to his, asking him to please close his eyes. I was surprised to feel that he was actually _trembling_ slightly, but I just concentrated on a mental image of him seeing the sunset over the Golden Gate Bridge. I wasn't even sure if that were how I was supposed to do it, but, well, I figured I'd try. A moment later, I pulled back and opened my eyes, only to see . . . darkness. Great. Somehow, in trying to help him, I'd made myself blind, too—or something. But I decided to stay calm and take it easy even though my heart was pounding like a drum.

"Okay," I said quietly, "try that."

I couldn't see him (and didn't know why I couldn't), but I _heard_ him. He opened his eyes and gasped quietly, looking around and _seeing_ the world around him, _seeing_ the bridge, _seeing_ the sunset. He was just awestruck, and I wished I could see his expression . . . I figured I knew what'd happened, though: I obviously _did_ have a healing power but it wasn't strong enough to do much just yet, so he was borrowing _my_ sight for a few wonderful minutes. I just held onto the rail so I didn't stumble, and I grinned to myself as I heard him whisper "Wow" a dozen times to himself. Then his hand was on my cheek, and I reached up and touched it.

"Del," he said softly, next to my good ear. My poor little heart skipped a nervous beat. "You're prettier than you give yourself license."

I grinned broadly to myself; no way was I gonna tell him that somehow this'd worked out so we'd traded places, in a sense. I didn't know how long he'd get to see, but he'd gotten to see the sunset _and_ my face, just like he'd wanted. Guess what else, too. The minute after he told me I was pretty (which made me liable to leap into the air and go flying while squealing at the tops of my lungs; oh, no, I was turning into a Nudge-ite!), he leaned down and—yep—kissed me. On the mouth. Hell, yeah!

Somehow, I didn't feel guilty about kissing him when Derek and I had smooched twice yesterday, and I wondered _why_ I didn't have any guilt. Oh well, that was a problem for another day. For the moment, it was just me and him, there on the bridge, my arms around his neck, his around my waist. Damn . . . It was like somethin' out of a chick flick but oh-so-very nice. Yeah, it was one of those times where a poet or romance writer could say "She wished the moment would never end." _Siiiiiigh._

A couple minutes later, Iggy pulled back, and I opened my eyes again. This time, I could see again, and he . . . couldn't. _Still._ Dammit. He looked sad that his moment of sightedness was gone, but he seemed _quite_ happy that he'd A) gotten to see the sunset on the bridge, B) gotten to see my face, and C) gotten to kiss me. Would it be so wrong to say that I'd really rather enjoyed that minute or two? But part of me just hoped that Derek hadn't seen it . . . and, somehow, I felt as if he had and was just _seething_ with jealousy. Great. But I just sighed and nestled my forehead against Iggy's shoulder; yeah, if anything happened to him, I wouldn't be a very happy person. I'd probably go on a wild killing spree, efficiently slaughtering anybody responsible. I mean, yeah, sure, I liked Derek, but I _really_ liked Iggy. Slight difference there, I think. Then again, who am I to try to figure out relationships? I'm just someone who's never had one before in her entire life, only to be thrown into her assignment and discover that, hey! The kids she was sent to kill really aren't so bad. I was just about to get all philosophical with my thoughts when I heard some faint Nudge-esque giggling and the _click_ of that camera of hers. Instantly, I knew what'd happened. She'd just gotten a lovely little shot of Iggy and me stuck closer than two gummy worms on a hot summer sidewalk. That made me pull away and glare evilly at her, and she just beamed innocently. Then I saw Derek's face. Oh, no. He looked so . . . so _crushed_ by what'd happened. He looked so miserable and, well, _lonely_ because Max and Fang were standing off a ways, holding hands. What can I say? The Golden Gate Bridge was apparently conducive to young, blossoming romance. Gazzy looked like he might gag at the whole scene and just went back to sitting atop one of the bridge's tall supports, gazing out at the sunset. I sighed to myself, gave Iggy's hand a squeeze and told him I'd be right back, and headed right for Derek. He turned away when I walked up.

"Derek, I—" I started, and he just looked at me.

"No, it's okay," he said. "Really. If you like him more, then . . . then that's fine."

"Derek, I don't _know_ if I like him more," I murmured. "I'm still trying to figure out my own emotions; I don't know squat. Just . . . don't be angry with me."

"I'm not. I mean . . . you didn't initiate it."

That's when the metaphorical light bulb went off for me. He wasn't upset with me; he was upset with _Iggy_. Oh, boy, now we had _more_ testosterone quite literally flying around! First Fang had punched Derek last week, and now Derek and Iggy were starting up a currently silent contest over me. Ever seen those National Geographic specials in which two male animals fight over the one female? Y'know, butt heads, lock horns, fight hard, the whole shebang? Yeah. I felt like the female in the middle. I just sighed, adjusting my windbreaker. Now that the sun had gone down, I was getting a little chilly. I put a hand on Derek's shoulder.

"It's okay," I said. "You two don't need to get into any sort of male contest just yet."

He offered me a strained little smile before Max came up alongside us, seemingly sensing that things were getting tense. I backed away a bit and ended up halfway between him and Iggy. Talk about ironic or something.

"Well," Max said, glancing at me. I blushed and looked the other way. "Shall we return to the Wonderful Room of Rest?"

We all nodded, and even Nudge agreed; after all, there wasn't a whole lot left to photograph now that the sun had set. Gazzy came down from his perch as Total trotted over to me before leaping up into my arms.

"Thank goodness," he said, snuggling into my arms. I sighed. "It's too cold for me to be out, anyway. And I'm—"

"Lemme guess, ye bottomless pit," I replied, glancing down at him. "You're hungry."

Total huffed, and I just rolled my eyes. I had absolutely _no_ idea how Max managed to feed all these guys on a daily basis! She certainly didn't have the benefit of modern technology like I'd had back at the school—meaning, she didn't have protein and carb shots to give them when they got hungry. Max sighed and glanced sideways-like at Total.

"Whenever are you _not_?" she asked him.

I think he would've stuck his tongue out if what happened next _hadn't_ happened. One minute, Derek was standing next to me, and the next . . . he was just _gone_! He hadn't taken a head start back to the hotel, he wasn't flyin . . . He was just _gone_! Immediately, we all took off at a flat-out run back to the hotel, looking all over for him. I started going through all the possible scenarios, and the one that made the most sense and yet _didn't_ was that he'd been kidnapped. Nobody could've swooped in that fast to grab him! Iggy would've heard them for certain! Derek had just . . . vanished!

Ten minutes later, when we burst through the door of the hotel room, huffing and puffing from exertion, guess what we found? We found _Derek_, standing there, looking like he was about to freak completely out. I, too, was freaking out, but I was trying to keep it to myself. Nudge charged right up to Derek.

"Holy _cow_, Derek!" she exclaimed, breathing hard like the rest of us. "How did you DO that?! I mean, one second, you were right there, and the next—POOF! Just _gone_!"

"I . . . I dunno!" Derek managed, his eyes wide. "I—I just visualized the room, and . . ."

My breath whooshed out of me as Max and I looked at each other; Derek had a special power? And it was _teleportation_? Good Lord . . .

"Well!" Max said, getting herself back under control. "Never gonna hafta fly again, are ya?"

She'd meant that as a joke, but the minute the words had come out, Derek's face fell. It looked to me as if a figurative knife had just been plunged into his heart. I knew how much he loved flying. To have it taken away from him . . . _again_ . . . would be like death. Oh, if only Max had known that . . . Well, she _did_ know that he'd been grounded for months, but she didn't know how much he truly enjoyed and treasured his flight. Fang just shook his head in disbelief.

"If we all could do that," he said, "they certainly wouldn't want us dead, now would they?"

I knew the answer to that but didn't voice it. Instead, I just sagged against the wall by the door in a motion that was half-born from exhaustion and half-born from shock. I just . . . This was _way_ beyond my comprehension! First my little healing thing that nobody knew about, now this?! What the hell was going on?! Surely the Director wouldn't have set us up with things that were _good_ for us. Either that or Derek and I were mutating and on the verge of death. My stomach turned a somersault at the thought of dying, but I managed to calm myself down by reminding myself that if I were dying, I probably wouldn't have developed a _useful_ skill. Next to me, Max shook her head in answer to Fang's statement.

"No," she said. "We never would've gotten out at all."

Ooh, insert dramatic music here! Derek just turned away from us all, letting himself out onto the balcony, where he sat down and buried his face in his hands. My heart clenched; I somehow just _knew_ that Max's little comment, though made in jest, was hurting him _so_ badly. To never fly again? Even for me, the thought of that was . . . excruciating. Nudge scurried out onto the balcony and informed Derek that she, at least, thought it was an awesome talent he'd gotten. Derek just patted her hand but didn't say anything, and eventually, all of us got calmed down from the excitement. We spread out across the adjoining rooms, and I sat down on the bed Max and I shared for . . . two minutes. Then I was up and walking out to the guys' balcony to try to comfort Derek. Poor guy; he looked so miserable! Of _course_ he didn't want his flight taken away from him! That was the only freedom he had!

"Hey," I said, crouching down beside him and getting his attention, "teleportation or no, you fly if you want to, dammit!"

He looked over at me and smiled weakly.

"I know," he sighed. "But what Max said . . . I know it was just one of her little jibes, but . . ."

"But it still cuts right to the core, I know. Y'know, this flying business may make us 'freaks,' but we can't help but love it anyway! I mean, what was that kid's name? Icarus? But he didn't have the wings attached to his actual body."

"True, I guess. But we'd still die if we flew too close to the sun. Let it be sun glare or airplane instead of melting wax."

Ah _ha_! So Derek had been doing some reading of his own, eh? Or maybe Batchelder had given him some lessons in classical literature. Just the thought of Batchelder made me stop cold. However much Derek feared losing his flight, I feared running into Batchelder. But I just put that out of my mind and scooted a little closer to Derek, resting my chin on his shoulder.

"Then we'll stay halfway between there and here," I murmured. "Just right in the middle of the sky."

"Sounds good," Derek replied with a sigh. "Sounds really good."

I offered a little half-smile as I reached up and tucked a few loose strands of his red-brown hair behind his ear. Call me crazy and love-struck, but if somebody had asked me at that moment to choose who I loved more—Derek or Iggy—I wouldn't have been able to do it. I cared for them both so, so much.

"And forgive the sudden increase in optimism," I went on, "but for the first time, I really think we're gonna be okay. All eight of us."

Derek put an arm around my shoulder and pecked my forehead; nope, he wasn't _just_ my little sidekick anymore.

"I think so, too." That was all he said.

We sat there in silence for a few minutes. I was snuggled up close into his chest, eyes closed, listening to him breathe. I think I was more on the verge of falling asleep than making this a romantic moment, but that didn't stop Nudge from cooing "Aw, that's _adorable_!" I cringed, knowing it was too much to hope that she was talking about something on TV . . . I could feel the curious glances, and I could hear Gazzy explaining what was going on to Iggy. Oh, great . . . I turned about, disentangling myself from Derek's arms, and shot Nudge an "Oh, you are in _so_ much trouble" look as I came back inside. Max eyed me with surprise as I walked back toward the girls' room.

"Well," she murmured. "Wasn't expecting _that_ . . ."

"I didn't think so, either," Iggy replied, his voice ice-cold. Oh, crap.

"It _is_ sweet," Angel put in, looking up at me. "And we _are_ going to be better."

I was trying to be so very casual as I went to the overstuffed chair in the corner of the girls' room, tugged off my sneakers, and sank into aforementioned chair. I was pretending that nobody had seen me and Derek cuddled up on the balcony (even though we were _not_ cuddled up!), but I knew they had. I also knew that Iggy was ticked. Off. After a minute, Derek left the room, stating that he was going down to the pool, and the rest of us got to work at taking showers and the like. I just sat there in that chair before my gaze went to Iggy. Oh, he looked _so_ angry. Damn, I'm in real civilization for a week or so, and already I've got two guys fighting for me! Remember what I said about feeling like the female animal on some National Geographic special? Yeah. If you want the fancy-schmancy version of the commentary, it would go something like "The two male human-avian hybrids will now engage in mortal combat, with the victor winning mating rights to the female." (For the record, ain't no "mating" _ever_ gonna be happenin' as long as I'm the female in question!) Now, for the Del version: "Derek and Ig are butting heads because—well, I have no idea why." _Sigh._

Anyway, I went to the connecting door and poked my head through it. Man, I really wished that I'd been able to permanently heal Iggy; that way, I could just grab his gaze and nod out to one of the balconies. But I couldn't quite do that, so . . .

"Hey, Ig," I said. "Talk to ya a minute? Girls' balcony."

With a sigh, he got up and followed me out to the girl's balcony. I let him out first before following, tugging the curtains back over the door and shutting it. Then I turned around to face him.

"All right," I said, keeping my voice firm. "Out with it."

His response was two words, sharp and to the point.

"Why him?"

Whoa. I had a feeling I knew where this was going. Derek was, after all, my sidekick—not to mention the guy who tried to kill me when his programming was activated. But I responded with my own sharp, to-the-point-ness.

"Why _not_ him?"

Iggy turned toward me, clenching his fists so hard that his knuckles cracked. Well, looks like I'd have to tread carefully, then.

"I feel like I owe you, you know!" he snapped. "You gave me my sight back, even just for a couple minutes, and . . . you always help me! And then today comes around . . . and there you go, off kissing some . . . guy . . ."

"I wasn't kissing him, Ig," I replied as gently as I could. "I gave him a hug because he was feelin' kinda low. Besides, it's not as if I were down at a local bar all night making out with every guy I laid eyes on. Gosh."

I still knew where he was coming from, though. He and I had some sort of special little connection thing going since we were both "defective": he was blind and I was half-deaf. Both of us had had crap-storms for lives, his more so than mine, and we just kind of understood each other. I sighed to myself, walking over to his side and touching his arm.

"What do you want me to do?" I asked him. He sighed and shrugged a bit.

"I don't know. Just don't give yourself up to anybody."

Oh, that. That handy-dandy little euphemism for "don't give up your you-know-what until you're married," right? Well, that's fine by me! I tilted my head at him.

"Please," I scoffed. "I may be seventeen, but even the suggestion is nauseating." I paused and sighed. "Look. I care about Derek, but I . . . I care about you, too. A lot. Nothin's gonna change that, okay?" He didn't even turn in my direction, so I reached up and touched his face. "Okay?"

"Yeah," he said softly, "okay."

He didn't seem as if he felt all that much better, but he wasn't moping around anymore. In fact, it seemed as if my little "I care about you a whole lot!" thing had perked him up somewhat. Well, that was just fine and dandy. Here I was, smack-dab in the middle of a love triangle, burying feelings that something horrible was about to happen—and soon. And you know how it is with me: if I get a bad feeling, something equally nasty is soon to occur. I just sighed and opened the door back into the hotel room, and Iggy went off to the guys' room while I crashed out on the bed. I reached over and grabbed the newspaper off the bedside table, covering my face with it, and I just lay like that for a while before I heard a familiar little voice.

"Don't worry about it," said Total. "Everyone has man trouble."

I groaned aloud and _really_ wanted to whack him with my newspaper—rolled up, preferably. Max flopped next to me, hands folded behind her head.

"Trust me," she said, "the dog's bein' wise for once."

I sighed as I tugged the newspaper off my face and rolled over onto my stomach, just looking at her.

"Y'sure? I mean, I'd rather trust a voice of experience than a fast-mouthed terrier."

She chuckled at me as I offered a teensy grin, and my thought at the moment was something like "Dang, she sure is being nice to me."

"You want a voice of experience?" she said. "All right, here goes. In D.C., we were held by Anne Walker. Went to a real school, albeit it was run by a sadist. I actually found a nice enough guy, but . . ." Here's where she lowered her voice just a bit and I leaned in closer to hear better. "Well, I saw Fang pushed up against a wall with some stupid redhead. Stuck like glue. Disgusting."

I positively shuddered at the mental image her description had given me, glancing through the open connecting door at Fang. Somehow, I just couldn't imagine _him_ shoved up against a wall with a girl that most definitely _wasn't_ Max. Oh, Lord, she was right; that _was_ disgusting!

"You _must_ be joking," I replied, trying to get her to say "Yep, sure am!" She just shook her head.

"Not an inch," she said, then grimaced at the memory. "Ugh, nasty . . . but I was in a tiff for days. Seriously."

I sighed, scrunching up my nose in disgust. Then it clicked for me. That's what Iggy saw me as because I'd hugged Derek! Oh, I'd just known it . . . Wouldn't you just believe it?

"Dang, Max!" I exclaimed. "I'm out in the real world for one freaking week, and suddenly I've got guys coming at me on all sides!"

Max just smirked at me.

"Trust me," she said, "you look a right sight better than me any day, and your wings outclass mine every hour."

Ha! She believed my wings were natural?! Double "ha!" I chuckled.

"I wasn't born with them looking that good, trust me. For the first while, they were as plain and boring a brown as you could get. The colors were a gift to me when I turned sixteen." I jabbed a thumb over my shoulder as my wings extended, feathers rustling quietly. "Cosmetic work."

"Seriously?" Max looked _way_ impressed, and I had a realization of "Holy crap, I'm having girl talk!" "So, if we get caught, y'think the head witch could offer me a similar deal if you asked her?"

"Well, y'know what they say . . . it doesn't ever hurt to ask." I smirked at her, and she snickered under her breath before I continued. "And yes, seriously. I'm here to tell you that three percent common house sparrow does _not_ make for pretty wings."

She grinned, and the whole while, I was trying to block out all thoughts of my "guy troubles" _and_ my recently-arrived bad feeling.

"I'll remember that," Max said. "Watch it turn out that I was crossed with . . . a robin or somethin'."

"Nah," I disagreed, shaking my head. "Knowing you, it was probably an eagle or something equally fierce."

My mind immediately drifted to Derek and his being part red-tailed hawk. I forced it to drift right back as I got up and went to take a shower, leaving Max cheerful that all this luxury was on the Director's bill. Oh, yes, life was lovely.

When I came out of the shower a few minutes later, my wings were dripping wet, so I hauled them out to the balcony to shake them dry. I declared loudly that life was _so_ very good, and Angel grinned at me.

"Totally!" she agreed. Then she turned her attention back to the TV; they were watching some live-action Disney movie or other. "Derek's down at the pool, if you want to know. He's in the sleeveless."

I dunno about you, but I heard a distinct tone of "Get on down and talk to him, girl!" in her voice. Yeah, that was a very subtle hint. _Not!_ I just nodded before stating that I'd go check on him and see if he were enjoying himself down there. So I padded out into the hallway in all my barefoot glory, taking the keycard to the girls' room. If anything, I wanted to be able to get back in again even though I could probably knock when I got back. But I walked, barefoot, down the hall to the elevator, and chose the first floor; when I got down there, I walked another little ways and reached the pool. Derek was all alone in there, so it wasn't that hard to find him. But Angel was right: he was in a sleeveless wetsuit, more than likely rented, that hid his wings all lovely-like. I just shouldered open the door, padded in, and chose a nice little perch on a nearby beach chair. Derek looked as if he were having a nice time in the water, slicing through it like a long, thin, human knife. Then he surfaced at the deep end, shaking water and his hair from his face, and that was when he spotted me. I waved, and he practiced his little teleportation thingy by "leaping" over to me.

"Hey there," he said, reaching for a towel and drying himself off a bit.

"Hey yourself," I replied. "Angel dropped something of a 'Go down and see him' hint. She wasn't very subtle."

"You think? Well, maybe I wanted a talk."

Deep down inside, I felt myself grow nervous. Oh, great, not another "Why him?" moment . . . I shifted anxiously on my seat.

"Uh . . . okay . . . Go ahead, I guess."

"I dunno what _about_," Derek laughed, shaking his damp hair back from his face. "Just . . . talk. About whatever."

I forced a smile before realizing that my bad feeling was getting steadily worse. I don't know how or why, but I somehow sensed that it would have to do with me—and soon. _Dear God, help me._ I sighed and looked up at Derek, swallowing somewhat hard.

"Well, you're in luck," I said. "I kinda need to talk, too. Y'see, Derek . . . Not too long ago, I got a bad feeling. It's . . . it's like the one I got before your programming went off." Derek stiffened at the mention of that, but I kept onward. "It's like . . . it's this weird feeling like something awful is gonna happen to us—really, _really_ soon. Like, 'in the next couple of days' soon."

I sighed, hunching my shoulders forward, and Derek sat down next to me, his hotel-provided towel draped across one knee. He wrapped an arm around my shoulders, tucking the top of my head under his chin. He knew how I was when I got these bad feelings because, well, they normally signaled something _huge_. But he just gently squeezed me, and I heard—and felt—him sigh.

"I know," was all he said.

It was as if he were feeling what I felt now, too. That comforted me somewhat, as did his arm around me. At least I knew I wasn't going this alone. But I just couldn't shake that nasty feeling. It was looming over me—haunting me, almost. It was as if the Director were whispering in my ear, warning me of swiftly approaching doom. She'd promised that my expiration date would be accelerated if I disobeyed her, and I had. Maybe there was, right then, a squad of Flyboys aimed for San Francisco—aimed for me. I almost couldn't handle that thought, and I turned and buried myself in Derek's shoulder. He squeezed me a little harder as I just hid my face in him, breathing in the scent of chlorine mixed with the scent of _him_—y'know, salt, sweat, whatever deodorant Batchelder had bought him . . . It was just . . . it was Derek. My friend, my confidant, my ally. And, somehow, knowing that I had somebody at my side made me feel a little better even though that nasty feeling never once went away.


	22. 21: Run, Sheep, Run

**A/N:** Derek to _JaxSolo_, Del to me, everybody else to James Patterson. And apologies that this chapter is a third of the length of the last one; I found a good break and decided to end the chappie there. That's my explanation. ) Enjoy!

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**Chapter Twenty-one – Run, Sheep, Run**

In the morning, the nine of us—yes, Total included—went out to scout out some of the little-known treasures of San Francisco. I was exhausted because I hadn't slept a wink the night before; between being in the middle of a teenaged love triangle and having the burden of my bad feeling, I'd been unable to do more than toss and turn all night long. Eventually, Max had awakened and asked me what was up; I'd lied and said nothing, but I did get up and curl up in the overstuffed chair there in our room. At least that way, I didn't bother her anymore. I still didn't sleep, but at least I wasn't bothering anybody with my issues. _Sigh._

Okay, so, we spent the whole day out wandering around, bypassing the stuff that we'd already seen in hopes of discovering, well, undiscovered treasures. We didn't find anything inherently unique, but everything we did find, every corner boutique, every back-alley restaurant with surprisingly good food, was quite fun. We _did_ do some moderate tourist-ing, however; we rode cable cars all over the place and went up and down Lombard Street at _least_ six times. And just think: we did it all on the Director's ticket. Now, normally, that would make me feel _really_ good. But, frankly, I was scared half to death. I was shaking; I was nervous; every little sound left me jumping in fright . . . Nobody else seemed to really notice because they were all having so much fun. Me? I was just waiting for the hammer to drop because I _knew_ that _something_ was going to happen any minute now. The suspense was probably literally killing me! Trust me when I say that randomly dropping dead probably isn't the best idea . . .

Everyone but me was having a blast. Well, I was enjoying everything all right, but, as I said, that bad feeling of mine put a damper on my fun. After a long while, we were just walking along—kind of window shopping, really. See, we'd found this mall and decided to explore. But that's pretty much beside the point. In that mall, as we were wandering around, I caught sight of a TV store. In its window were several high-def TVs, all showing the same image. It was nothing, really: just a soap opera—"As the World Turns," I think maybe it was. But what got my attention was the subliminal encoding sprinkled in it.

I shouldn't have looked at it.

Why?

The broadcasted waves were designed to trigger _me_.

_Oh, God,_ I thought, horrified._ Oh, God, please, no . . . Please, God, don't let me turn into what it's trying to make me . . . !_

It was a horrible sensation: like ice water flowing down my spine, flooding me, chilling me down to my fingers and toes. And I couldn't turn away from that screen no matter how I tried. The words—the _commands_—were soaking in, filling my brain with orders in the Director's voice.

_You no longer have any say in the matter. This is beyond your control. _Kill them all._ Even Derek. Even the blind one. _This_ is what you were created for._

No . . . no . . . no . . . ! I started shaking as, slowly, my control over myself shut down. I knew I was losing control, that, all too soon, the programming would completely take over, transforming me from myself—from Del—into the assassin Itex had created—into Project Delilah. Into the ruthlessly efficient killing machine they'd designed. I swallowed hard as I kept staring at the screen, feeling everything gradually shut down until I had just the barest idea of what was happening around me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Derek wave the others off, making them run to safety. Run away from _me_. The part of me that _was_ me felt a pang of grief; they'd become my friends, and now they had reason to fear me. The assassin half, which was taking me over by the minute, felt nothing.

When the commands stopped filtering in, I turned slowly, still barely aware of my surroundings. I only saw the Flock, only saw Derek. When I looked at them, I only saw targets. I only saw my mission objectives. But then the Flock was gone, disappeared, run to safety. There was only Derek. He was backing away from me, fists clenched, eyes locked onto mine. I was shaking so badly I couldn't keep my hands still; deep down, I knew he was my friend. I was struggling to keep afloat, as it were, to not let the commands get the better of me! I . . . would not . . . go down . . . like this! I was trying so hard to keep control of my own mind, but it got harder by the minute because whenever I looked at Derek, I only saw how easy it would be to grab him by the throat and just _squeeze_ until he stopped twitching. I wanted—no, _I_ didn't want to; the programming made me want—to grab his neck in the crook of my arm and twist until it snapped . . . because that was what I was now ordered to do. But I, Del, was still fighting to stay sane, to just . . . stay . . . _alive_.

My control over myself still shutting down, I managed to meet Derek's hard gaze once or twice when my eyes stopped darting around long enough to allow me to focus on him. He looked gazes with me but didn't move; his fists were still clenched, and he looked as if he'd snap out his wings and fly away in a heartbeat. I wanted to tell him that this was all a mistake; the assassin wanted to kill him. I felt as if I were becoming less of myself and more of that murderer, and my head hurt so badly as I fought the commands . . . but it . . . it wasn't working . . .

"I'm not letting her do this to you, Del," he hissed out. I had one broken thought, barely coherent: _He knows . . . He . . . help?_ "You _can_ fight her! I _know_ you can! You were taught to be stronger, faster, smarter! _Do it!_ Prove her right, for once! Show her that you _are_ stronger, _are_ smarter than her, than her minions, than her company!"

I couldn't even breathe; the encoding was taking over _everything_. I could feel my fists clench but knew I wasn't clenching them, wasn't the one sending the command through my muscles that said "Yes, clench Del's hands."

"I . . ." I forced out, my voice hoarse and crackling. "I . . . can't . . ."

The words barely came out because I was still struggling to maintain _some_ measure of control. Maybe . . . maybe if I kept some control . . . I could stop this! I could be better! This wouldn't have to happen! My vision grew hazy for a moment as I took a staggering step forward, ready to kill him, but then I shook my head and backed away again as I regained control of myself. I managed to meet Derek's piercing gaze again as I forced out two words; they were barely audible.

"Help . . . me . . ."

Derek took a step toward me, looking like he just might help me. Oh, my head . . . It hurt so bad . . . Throbbing, stabbing, blinding . . . Like a dozen knives stabbing into my brain, prodding, twisting . . .

"I _will_ help you, Del!" Derek told me. "Just fight her, fight _them_! It's what _we_ want to do, remember? _US!_ Just forget them and live our lives before we _do_ die!"

My mind was so fuzzy, so torn between the orders that were still taking over and the memories _I_ had. And _I_ remembered that Derek had promised me we'd be okay, that we'd survive and go somewhere where the Director couldn't hurt us anymore. I just . . . just had to hold out . . . hold out until he said my safe word . . . But my _head_ . . . Oh, it hurt so much . . . It was her, it was the Director, coming in, trying to take over . . . ! I planted my feet firmly, trying _not_ to lunge at Derek and snap his neck, shaking my head rapidly as if trying to force _them_ out. They had to get . . . out . . . NOW . . . The part of me that _was_ me didn't want them there. I still had enough of myself left to know that. But they were there, in my brain, controlling, groping, tying me down, making me their slave, their . . . their tool . . . their weapon . . .

_No, no, get _out_! You don't belong here! You're not me! Leave me alone! Get out! Get _out_! _Wo-xiang mei-er, mei-xin, bian shi-tou! _I will close my ears and my heart, and I will be a stone! You won't be able to control me when I'm a stone! Now _get out_!_

She didn't get out, though. The commands were still there, controlling me, making me into what I didn't want to be . . . I couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't talk . . . I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to fight but feeling as if I were losing . . .

"Der . . . ek . . . please . . ."

The next instant, Derek had run to me and was grabbing my arms. I was still shaking like a leaf, still trying to block out the commands, still failing miserably.

"_Fight!_" he told me. "You can beat it! Don't you give up, not after we've had such a great time! We know how our lives can be, how they _will_ be! You just gotta pull through . . . if only I could remember your words!"

Del—I—wanted him to say the words, to make the pain go away, to make the orders be silent. The assassin said no, no you won't, no you _can't_. I stared up at Derek, trembling, trying to remind myself that _I_ wouldn't—couldn't—kill him or the others, no matter what the programming said. But the programming said no, you will, you'll do it, and you'll do it _now_. It felt as if the programming were taking over, as if it were making me _want_ to kill him. I squeezed his shoulders until my knuckles turned white, staring into his eyes as if that would somehow keep me grounded until he could say my words. I wanted to make it, wanted to survive, but the whispers crawling in my skull kept telling me no, no, _no_ . . . I clenched my eyes shut, everything a hazy blur, and pressed my forehead into his chest. I barely felt his arms wrap tightly around me in a hug, barely felt him rest his chin atop my head, barely felt him exhale heavily.

"Just pull through," he whispered. "Pull through for me, for all of us. 'Bird Kids are People Too,' remember?"

I laughed feebly, nodding weakly in spite of the agonizing pain in my head, the pain that I just _knew_ was splitting my skull open.

"Yeah . . ." I mumbled. "Yeah . . . Oh, please, say my words . . . Just . . . just let it be over . . ."

Derek leaned over beside my good right ear, kissing my cheek before whispering those beautiful, long-awaited, much-desired words—my safe word. The minute they hit my ear, I knew it wouldn't hurt anymore.

"Run, sheep, run," he murmured. "Don't be one anymore."

The moment he said those first three words, everything—the commands, the whispers, the pain—vanished, dissipated, left me alone. My head felt . . . clear. I didn't have conflicting thoughts anymore. I didn't have anything making me want to kill him, kill the others. In the half-second after he spoke my safe word, I looked up into his eyes and wearily nodded my thanks before slumping into his arms.

The last thing I felt as I passed out was his arms firmly steadying me, keeping me from falling. The last thing I thought before everything went dark and so comfortably painless was "Derek cares."

But at least it was over.

* * *

_A/N: As always, Chinese is from www-dot-browncoats-dot-com. No, FFnet won't let me do URLs. Sigh._


	23. 22: Making Plans

**A/N:** Derek to _JaxSolo_, Del to me, everybody else to James Patterson. And the plot is picking back up! Hurray! This chapter's only short because it had such a nice break in the action that I couldn't resist getting it to you sooner than you would've gotten it if I _hadn't_ broken it. D

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**Chapter Twenty-two – Making Plans**

_That sure was interesting . . ._

When I woke up after my little, er, _episode_, I didn't know where I was. It was dark—obviously night—but the weather was comfortable and there was soft grass beneath me. A park? Maybe. I thought I could smell a pine tree nearby, and its spicy scent was, well, rather comforting. Slowly, I sat up and looked around. _C'mon eyes, adjust to the darkness . . ._ They did, and I blinked. There was some quiet conversation not too far away from me; okay, so I wasn't miles away from civilization, right? But my head . . . It hurt so badly; had to have been a side effect of that programming going off. I barely remembered what'd happened but knew I hadn't hurt anyone; I didn't feel like I did after killing—y'know, kinda dirty, like that blood was literally on my hands and I couldn't get it off. Y'know, "Out, damned spot!" in the most literal sense and not Shakespearean eloquence. Then again, I've never exactly read that particular play, so . . .

_Anyway_, my head hurt like hell; it was pounding and I just wanted to curl up in a little ball. In the back of my mind, I remembered what those guys at the School had told me: they'd made some last-minute fixes to my programming. Oh, joy. Maybe this meant the headache would go away on its own without a shot of whatever that antidote was that they'd given me. I sighed to myself, burying my head in my hands as guilt set in. Was this what it would always be like after the programming kicked in? A headache and then a bout of "I could've killed my best friend" guilt? I was about to curl up and just be alone when I heard a familiar voice.

"Hey there, Del; you any better?"

My heart leaped. _Iggy . . ._ I started to answer when I heard another equally familiar voice.

"Not bent on killing us all, are you?"

And Derek, too! My heart leaped again. I looked around and found that the entire Flock was there, not too far from me, crowded around the light from Fang's laptop. Even with my pounding head, I was _so_ grateful to see them all, to see that they were all right . . . so I crawled over and settled down near them. Nudge and Gazzy parted—kinda like the Red Sea outta that Bible story, y'know?—so I sat down between them. I hugged them both before _finally_ answering the two questions posed to me.

"Uh huh and nuh uh," I said. "I'm . . . I'm okay. But, dammit, I really have to stop looking at TV screens."

"Both of us, mate," Derek replied with a smirk. "But we're working on a plan. We got it started just before you woke up."

"Ooh, yeah?" I asked. That sure piqued my interest! Anything to end this misery was a gift from heaven! "Something to override it?"

Derek grinned at me.

"Better."

"We're taking out the nearest Itex transmitter," Iggy explained, then chuckled almost wickedly. "Explosion, anybody?"

"Ooh, me!" Gazzy was quite enthusiastic about this. "Lemme at it!"

"Sounds good to me," I murmured, rubbing my upper arms. "Okay, so, who wants to bring me up to speed on the enormous 'Let's blow up an Itex transmitter!' plan?"

Max volunteered as she took hold of the laptop and explained to me that since the triggers for my and Derek's programming were embedded in video clips, all we had to do was find the Itex transmitters that were sending out those "tainted" videos. But wait, there's more! Finding the transmitters was just the beginning. The fun part was in _destroying_ them. Max explained that that'd be no problem; Iggy and Gazzy had more than enough ready explosives to take out at least one transmitter, and they had the materials to build more if we needed them. I nodded as the plan was explained to me; I liked it just fine. Max rounded out her explanation by informing me that, after we destroyed the transmitter, we'd be flying down to the School to shake them up a bit. My eyebrows rose steadily; attack the School? Nobody'd ever tried _that_ before . . .

We'd be the first ones to try and to maybe survive. Oh, who was I kidding? Of _course_ we'd survive! I mean, Max and Company had leveled Itex with a pretty big blow a few years back—or so I'd heard. Anyway, her explanation finished, Max handed the laptop back to Fang, who got right to work at hunting down the nearest Itex transmitter. Iggy turned toward Gazzy, and the two of them started taking inventory. They did, after all, need to have enough explosives to take care of the transmitter _and_ then that little (yeah, _right_) assault on the school. I just sat there, looking back and forth between Derek and Iggy, and I came to the realization of something strange: my programming had gone off and I'd flipped out, but that was over now. Even though all that was in the past, that bad feeling I'd had hadn't eased up one bit. It still felt as if this huge, dark rain cloud were looming over me, just _waiting_ to explode with thunder, lightning, and a torrential downpour of evilness. I just sighed to myself and eased away from the others, willing the nasty feeling to just leave me the heck _alone_. And yet . . . it didn't. It just prodded me in the center of my chest in a not-so-subtle reminder that my bad feelings mean that equally horrible things are bound to happen sooner or later—usually sooner.

A minute later, I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned. Derek was there, settling down beside me. I smiled somewhat wanly at him and just leaned my head into his shoulder; I still had that headache, but it wasn't as horrible as it was. I mean, it wasn't as if I were going to throw up or anything. Yeah, wouldn't _that_ be fun . . . Note sarcasm. He wrapped an arm around my shoulder and gently rubbed my upper arm as I just exhaled slowly.

"You sure you're good?" he asked me.

"I think so," I nodded. Then I sighed and looked up at him. "I just . . . thank you. For trying, for sticking around, and for making me fight it."

Derek nodded a silent "You're welcome" and squeezed me gently. I didn't snuggle into his embrace like I would've if we were, say, on a roof or sitting beside a hotel pool, so I just kept leaning against him. I sure appreciated the rather literal support under my head; I was exhausted. Derek and I sat there like that for a few minutes, watching as Gazzy and Iggy got their bombs together and Max got after them about exercising proper safety precautions. After a minute, Derek glanced down at me.

"How's that bad feeling of yours?" he asked me. "Any better?"

"Just fine," I lied, even though I felt horrible about lying to him. I guess I just didn't want him worrying about me . . . or something. _Sigh._ "All better."

"Glad to hear it."

Derek leaned over and pecked me on the forehead not two seconds before Fang held up the laptop and announced that he thought he'd found the nearest Itex transmitter. Ah, yes, the wondrous powers of Google! We all crowded around the laptop and peered at it; there on the screen was a picture of a park-like area, and there, in the semi-background . . . was the transmitter. Either I was going bonkers or I could _swear_ that I saw the Itex logo on one of its sides. That was funny; I'd never known Itex to put its logo on its more sinister stakes in the global economy. Then again, just about every box of cereal, every plastic water bottle, every package of baby diapers . . . they all had that logo on it. Talk about having something reach to literally every corner of the world. I shuddered to think about just how much the world depended on Itex and how few people knew what they were _really_ about. But back to the transmitter.

"It's close, too," I said. "That's only about, what, twenty miles away? No wonder Derek and I went off within a couple of days of each other."

"Indeed," Derek murmured. "But it works. It's close enough that we can get to it, blow it to hell, fly back for some rest, then hit the road for our next grand target."

"Any guards?" Iggy asked, fiddling absently with some of the wiring on the bomb in his lap. I hoped he wouldn't accidentally cross the wrong wires.

"Can't tell," Max replied with a shake of her head. "Besides, that picture's a few weeks old."

"We could sneak in," Nudge suggested, making it sound as if it were an underground base rather than a simple transmitter tower. "Or if there're guards, then Angel could use a mind trick and lure them off."

"And then we go in, plant the bomb, and get lost," I finished.

"My, my," Max smirked, "it's so simple, it sounds like something I'd say. Let's do it."

I nodded, eyes glinting mischievously as I looked around at them all. My headache had passed, and it was finally time to take the fight to the big kahuna herself! I'd waited for this day ever since I'd found out what Itex was using me for, what they were trying to make me become. Tonight we'd blow up their transmitter; tomorrow we'd blow up their leader. That thought gave me such a feeling of victory even though we hadn't one a single battle yet, and I could tell that the excitement was contagious: Fang looked pleased, and Gazzy looked practically rabid with wanting to use his grenades. I stood up, barely making a sound, hardly making the grass beneath me rustle.

"Let's get a move on!" I said. "It's dark; they'll never see us coming."

"All right, kids, up and at it!" Max added, leaping to her feet. "Ig, Gasman, you got the bombs safe?"

"Duh," Iggy replied with a chuckle as he and Gazzy climbed to their feet, clutching their stash. "We've become better after Big Boy."

"I just hope we don't explode while airborne," Derek sighed, and I smothered a laugh, both at his expression and at what Gazzy said next.

"Oh, we won't! We put safeties on them now!"

Guess that meant that the older bombs never had safeties. Oh, but wasn't _that_ a comforting thought? Nudge seemed to pale; apparently she hadn't realized _that_ little tidbit . . . I just grinned before snapping out my rich golden wings, rustling the feathers a moment, and launching myself into the sky with hard, powerful down strokes. My wings propelled me ever higher with a low, rhythmic _fwump_,_ fwump_. The others rocketed up after me, and Max took the lead. I was perfectly willing to let her lead us; I just hung back, banking and twisting through the air. I noticed that, a little higher up, Derek was doing his own stunt flying. I grinned as the wind played with my hair before I banked and swooped up beside Iggy, pecked him once on the cheek, then soared off again. As I went off, I saw his expression turn to shock and heard a giggle from Nudge—and even one from Angel, I might add. But I was just so . . . so _ecstatic_ with the thought of what we were soon to do that the low giggling didn't even bother me. I just soared higher, banking across the city and flying up to say hello to the man in the moon. This was a long overdue night.

_Oh, Director,_ I thought to myself. _You're gonna get it now. I won't be your pawn any longer. Never again, Madam Director. Never again._


	24. 23: To Kill a Transmitter

**A/N:** Derek to _JaxSolo_, Del to me, everybody else to James Patterson. Here's where the plot picks up, folks! Whee!

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**Chapter Twenty-three – To Kill a Transmitter**

About thirty minutes later, we arrived near the location of that Itex transmitter tower. We landed in the surrounding woodlands since it was, after all, bordering a park-like zone. As far as we could tell, this place was like a graveyard. There were no guards that we could see—and we can all see very well, y'know—and nothing suspicious. Yet as we were crouched there in the bushes, I couldn't help but be reminded of my bad feeling. Here it was, stronger than ever, making my heart pound, and I almost wanted to just get up and _run_. But I figured that the transmitter was responsible for what I was feeling; as I gazed up at its peak, I couldn't help but feel a little timid. So _that_ was what was responsible for nearly ruining Derek . . . for nearly ruining me. It looked so . . . _harmless_, but I knew it was evil. The tower itself wasn't inherently good or bad, but it was the people behind it that needed to be stopped. Well, we'd get there in due time; for now, this monster needed to go.

I shifted slightly as Max tapped Iggy's arm twice; he and Gazzy got up and crept toward the base of the transmitter to begin wiring up the bomb. He was setting it up for remote detonation rather than on a timer; that way, the tower wouldn't go up in smoke until we were all cleared out of there. I still couldn't see anything, so I told Max of this, and the remaining six of us bird kids crept out closer to the tower. Derek was glancing around, keeping his eyes peeled for guards; after all, with Itex, you can never be sure what they'll do. They might even decide to guard a simple transmitter tower. Or, worse, they might've figured we'd come to blow it sky-high. I swallowed hard but just stayed low to the ground; Derek glanced over at Iggy.

"You almost done?" he asked, almost nervously. Apparently he was either picking up on my anxiety or he had some of his own. Iggy sighed with a distinct tone of "Leave me be and just let me work here!"

"Just about . . ."

I crept a little closer to Derek, careful to silence even my breathing. If the Director's minions weren't going to pop out and yell "BOO!" then maybe some San Francisco cops were. Wouldn't that be fun . . . Nudge, Gazzy, Angel, Derek, and I would all go to a juvenile detention center, most like. Max, Fang, and Iggy might get to go to _prison_—y'know, the big nasty one for adults who've committed crimes ranging from metaphorical chicken-thieving to first-degree murder. Synonyms include jail, clink, slammer, pen, pokey, hoosegow . . . I think you've got it. But didn't _that_ sound fun? I thought not. Anyway, I just crouched there, watching Iggy and Gazzy work. But a minute later, something crunched about twenty feet behind me, and I went straight as a board.

"Total . . ." I whispered. "Tell me that was you . . ."

"Why would it be when I'm _right here_?" Total whispered back, sounding mildly annoyed. I looked down . . . and paled. _He was right in front of me._ Nudge glanced over at me, looking concerned.

"I heard it too," she breathed.

Derek turned and just looked at me. "You up to a good fight?" his eyes seemed to ask. I nodded slowly as Max prodded Iggy in the shoulder, urging him to hurry up. He grumbled under his breath.

"You ain't exactly helpin'!" he muttered.

"Just get the bomb ready," Derek said. "I can hold them."

"_We_ can hold them," I clarified, shoving the sleeves of my windbreaker up above my elbows. "We're trained for this."

I got a couple "Really?" looks, but I just smirked. Oh, was I _ever_. I had fighting skills that more than likely put Max's to shame; mine were martial arts-based fight skills and, boy, were they handy! Derek had the same training, and I knew this because, if you'll recall, he and I trained together for a little while before we left the School for this assignment. So, I knew what he could do. I knew what _I_ could do. And, therefore, I knew that we were about to kick serious butt.

Derek and I turned slightly, toward the woods, and that was when I saw dozens of glowing red pinpricks shining through the darkness. My stomach turned a somersault, but I took a deep breath to calm myself. I knew what those red dots were; they were eyes. They were _Flyboy_ eyes. My first thought? "The Director knew we'd hit this transmitter. She's had this patrol waiting for us!" Now, I wasn't sure if that were the truth or not, but I knew the Director. That was _exactly_ the sort of stunt she'd pull. I glanced over at Derek, fists clenched as I raised my eyebrows in that universal gesture of "You ready?" He nodded slowly and balled his own fists, and both our wings slowly extended. A minute later, he narrowed his eyes and vanished, but then I saw what he'd done: he'd envisioned himself _right behind_ the Flyboy patrol. He winked at me before glaring at the 'bots.

"Hey, there!" he announced.

They all wheeled about, and he tore into them like there was no tomorrow. In truth, knowing us, there may very well be no tomorrow. We bird kids have to live for every day; we have to live in and for the present because we might not have a tomorrow. Now, that doesn't mean we spend our time in debauchery and things like that; nah, we do things like go to San Francisco and watch the sunset from the Golden Gate Bridge. Living with an expiration date looming over you kinda teaches you to enjoy life to its fullest, y'know?

_Anyway_, I couldn't help but grin at Derek. He was _good_; every punch and kick was carefully timed, carefully coordinated. And me? Well, I decided that now would be a great time to show what _I_ could do. While Derek attacked the Flyboys from the back, I took to them from the front, bouncing lightly on the balls of my feet before charging in, fist out. I slammed my fist into the first metallic head I saw, and it was such a precise hit that I knocked that head loose; it went spinning like a globe, and I delivered a beautiful roundhouse to that Flyboy's neck, knocking its head completely off and knocking the Flyboy itself out of commission.

I think that the Flock members were all staring at us even as Iggy and Gazzy hurried to get that bomb wired. Max and Fang looked ready to leap into the fray if ever Derek and I seemed to be failing, but, well, we weren't. Derek and I kept punching, limbs flailing; it _did_ kind of look as if we didn't know what the hell we were doing, but you can be assured that we most certainly _did_. We were breathing hard but not exhausted; those Flyboys were shooting at us but missing. I was actually afraid that a stray bullet might wound and/or kill one of the Flock, but the minute I thought that, Iggy declared that he was finished, and Max ordered them all into the sky. I started backing away from the fight, wings extended fully and ready to carry me up into the dark California night, but Derek wasn't coming with us. He was still fighting, giving it everything he had; his attention seemed to be in twenty places at once. For example, he was yelling at me to get a move on while delivering sound rabbit punches to the back of Flyboys' necks.

"C'mon, Derek!" Angel cried, waving emphatically at him from where she hovered about twenty feet up.

Derek didn't respond, though; he was too firmly concentrated on taking out this patrol. I myself was finding it hard to get free; every time I backed up, Flyboys swarmed over me, and every time they swarmed, I punched their lights out. So that's how it went for me: punching and backpedaling, punching and backpedaling. I either had to get these guys off Derek's back or lead them right up against the transmitter before shooting skyward; that would let the blast from the explosion take care of them; I wouldn't have to worry about them after that. I kept glancing up at the others even as I punched out a few more Flyboys; the others were still waiting for Derek and me, and they were waving us up, begging us to hurry up and come on.

"Der!" I called. "Come _on_!"

"Get outta here!" he called back, knocking another Flyboy out of the fight. "I'm behind you; now _GO_!"

I didn't like the idea of leaving him behind, but I didn't have a choice. Iggy swooped down and grabbed my hand, beckoning me skyward.

"C'mon, Del!" he said, tugging me upward. "We gotta go!"

In his other hand was the detonator for the bomb; his thumb was hovering over it, just _waiting_ for the signal to press it and blow that transmitter to the hot place. I could see that Derek was getting exhausted; it wouldn't be long before the Flyboys overwhelmed him. But I just grabbed Iggy's hand and pushed off from the ground, airborne almost instantly. I was flapping as hard and fast as I knew how, trying to get out of the range of that explosion; how was I to know how powerful the boys had made that bomb? Max glanced back once at Derek, concern in her eyes, but she waved us off, out of range. A stray bullet from one of those Flyboys' guns whistled past my ear; that was _too_ close. Angel kept stopping to turn around and watch, to try to make sure Derek was all right, but once when she turned and I followed, I couldn't see him. I could tell he was still down there, still fighting, but I couldn't see him; it was as if he'd been covered up by all the mechanical bits and pieces and was trying to fight his way out from that, too. I swore under my breath; I should've grabbed him out of there before it got too bad!

"What am I _doing_?!" I cried, coming to a hovering midair stop. "We can't leave him down there!"

I tucked in my wings and started diving back down to the transmitter, but Fang zipped in front of me and grabbed my shoulders as if trying to push me back up toward the others.

"You don't wanna get caught when that thing blows," he said, and I snarled at him.

"I sure as hell don't want _him_ caught, either!"

"He won't!" Angel tried to assure me. "Just . . . trust him."

"It won't blow until I push the button," Iggy reminded me. "And somebody tell me when the fighting stops so I _can_!"

I gulped and looked down, peering over Fang's shoulder. Scarily enough, it seemed to have quieted down. Now there were only about three or four intact Flyboys milling about, as well as the trail of robot parts Derek and I had made fighting our way through. But . . . there'd been _more_ robots than that. There'd been _dozens_! _And_ I couldn't see Derek. My stomach lurched with worry; I couldn't see him! But "trust him," Angel had said. Trust Derek. Maybe he'd gotten away. Maybe he'd escaped! Maybe he'd teleported back to the hotel and would be waiting there for us! I tried to calm my pounding heart but found that next to impossible; _I couldn't see Derek._ My bad feeling was worse now than it ever was before; my heart was pounding in my ears, and I couldn't breathe.

_Oh, God,_ I silently prayed, _please, _please_ don't let Derek die._

That said, I swallowed hard, silently begged Derek to have escaped and be working his way up to meet us, and glanced over at Iggy. Then I looked at Max and nodded; she gave me one sympathetic look before ordering Iggy to blow that tower sky-high. He nodded briskly and mashed the button, and the next second, that tower exploded in a massive fireball, taking out the remaining Flyboys and singeing nearby trees. We were still close enough to it that the explosion rattled our feathers; a wave of stifling heat washed over us, leaving me and Total coughing. Iggy and Gazzy were cheering and laughing victoriously, celebrating that explosion, and Nudge's jaw was slack, but Max . . . Max just looked disturbed.

"Anybody see Derek?" she asked. She, like me, had been expecting that he'd escaped into the woods and would soon come up to meet us, congratulating us on that explosion. She glanced at Angel. "Ange—"

Angel slowly shook her head. It was obvious then to me that she'd felt something prior to the explosion—she'd felt _Derek_, but now she didn't. That could only mean one thing, and when that realization hit me, I started to hyperventilate. My eyes darted around like a crazed animal's as I hunted for _any_ sign that would tell me that Derek was still alive, that he was all right!

"Oh, no," I gasped out, my breath whooshing out of me in a panicked rush. "Oh, no, no, no, _NO_ . . . !"

Unable to stand it, I tucked in my wings and dove down toward the charred rubble that was once that transmitter tower; parts of it were still on fire, as were those remaining Flyboys. I landed and immediately started picking through the wreckage. There was nothing.

_No, God, _please_! Not Derek!_

A minute later, the others landed, and Iggy came immediately to my side. I was shaking like a leaf as I stared at what remained of the tower site. I could already feel hot tears stinging my eyes because I knew that, had Derek been _anywhere_ near that tower when it exploded, the explosion would've killed him instantly. The only reason the remaining eight of us (yes, the mutt included) were still breathing was because we'd gotten farther away. No, not Derek . . . ! He just _couldn't_ be . . . couldn't be . . .

"He's _got_ to have survived," Max said, coming up behind me. She was trying to be the strong leader she usually was, but I could hear worry in her voice. "I don't smell burnt bird kid."

It was _not_ the best time for wit or sarcasm, and I shook visibly. Iggy snaked an arm over my shoulder, and I turned toward him, not wanting to look at the rubble anymore. Fang sighed and glanced sideways-like at Max.

"I don't think that's gonna make her feel any better," he observed in reference to the almighty Max's burnt bird kid comment.

"D—damn straight," I forced out, trying to keep my voice steady but failing. If Derek were . . . were _gone_, I didn't know _what_ I'd do! "And . . . well . . . given the size of the . . . of the explosion . . . There might not be enough to bury . . ."

The Gasman came up beside me and looked at me, eyes somewhat mournful. No longer was he cheering for the greatest explosive masterpiece he'd worked on to date.

"Well . . ." he said slowly, "it _was_ beautiful . . ."

I turned and tried to smile at him, reaching out and ruffling his hair.

"Yeah, kiddo," I murmured. "It sure was."

Iggy gave my shoulder a squeeze, and I just buried my face in his neck, trying to calm down, as the others spread out to comb the wreckage. I didn't want to get all weepy just yet, but I knew that if Derek _hadn't_ made it, then I'd have to go off and find me some dark corner in which I could curl up and just sob my little bird kid heart out. But I just clung to Iggy, clutching the back of his shirt while I tried to calm myself, and he just held me. After a minute, I heard Max sigh, so I glanced up.

"Anybody find a secret hatch of some kind or whatever?" she asked. Everyone shook their heads. "Any remains that aren't robotic?" Again, more negative head-shakes. Max nodded. "Then maybe he beamed himself out in time."

I know, I know; you're probably thinking, "Gee, Del! Why didn't _you_ think of that?!" Well, I had. I'd always known it was a possibility, but . . . at the time, I was just so horror-stricken that it didn't seem as if Derek would've gotten a chance to escape. After all, he'd still been pinned down when I'd seen him last. Then the explosion happened, and now I was wondering what'd happened to him. I blinked, tilting my head sideways; Total was still trotting around, sniffing at the ground and the air. He must've been pretending to be a bloodhound and was trying to locate Derek's scent. Yeah, you do that, mutt.

"D'ya think?" I asked. Nudge nodded emphatically.

"Well, sure!" she replied. "I bet he had just enough time to get somewhere else! Heck, he might be all the way in . . . um . . . _Canada_ by now!"

"Whatever place he could've thought of, I bet," Iggy agreed, giving my shoulder another squeeze.

"See?" Max looked at me with such a calm assurance that I envied her. "No worries; he's probably . . . someplace."

I was just starting to feel better and was already thinking up every possible location that Derek could've teleported to when a shock stabbed me right in the temple. My stomach turned a flip; it was the Director. Oh, joy; my day was just going positively _wonderfully_! I was neither expecting this call nor looking forward to hearing from her again, so I smacked my forehead.

"Whaddaya want _now_?" I hissed under my breath.

In that instant, everyone turned and looked at me. Iggy gripped my arm.

"Is it her?" he asked, voice low.

I nodded and was about to reply verbally when the Director's answer came through.

_If you are looking for Subject Seventeen . . . he has survived._

My breath whooshed out of me in a mix of relief and horror as I understood. _She had Derek._ And, if she didn't, then those robot goons of her did and were taking him to the School at that very moment. I felt sick to my stomach as well as enraged; there was no _way_ on this earth that I'd let her get away with this! I just _knew_ that she was planning to hurt Derek, to try to make him into a replacement for me . . . to send _him_ to kill the Flock _and_ me. Icy, tingly adrenaline rushed through me as I processed all this. My fists clenched as I started seething with anger and hatred, and I shot off a cold reply.

_If you have him, then know that I'm coming for you._

Her response was equally malicious.

_Then I look forward to seeing you again, Delilah._

Then the connection cut off with a particularly painful shock, and I lurched forward about a quarter of an inch. Iggy steadied me as I got myself under relative control; I mean, I wasn't about to freak out over that call, but I was absolutely _livid_. Max glanced at me.

"Well?" she asked. "What did she want?"

Anger and hatred for the Director and everything she was bubbled up inside me, and my fists clenched so hard that my knuckles cracked. I started breathing heavily, eyes narrowed, before I pounded one fist _hard_ into my thigh.

"That bitch!" I shrieked, thoroughly startling everyone. "She has him!"

Okay, what were _you_ expecting me to say? Were you expecting me to be all calm and collected and just go "Oh, no big; it's only that the person we all hate more than anyone else on the freaking _planet_ has Derek in her claws. It's not serious"? Well, this _was_ serious. For all I knew, those Flyboys might not even wait until they got Derek back to the School! They could be torturing him in midair! The thought of that positively infuriated me; we _had_ to get Derek back!

"We need to get in there," Max stated firmly, brows furrowed.

"If we still had the blueprints . . ." Angel didn't finish that thought.

"I say we bomb 'em until they give him up," Iggy suggested, and I rapidly shook my head. Gazzy noticed.

"But if we did that, we might get him, too," he reasoned. "And as much as I love a good explosion, that'd be a little cruel to Derek, don'tcha think?"

I nodded fiercely and clenched my left fist as I started to pace the length of the site where the antenna was. _Was._ Past tense. I needed to think. Somehow, we had to get Derek back, and I figured I'd better spearhead a massive rescue operation before the Director sank claws—either hers or Erasers'—into him. I knew that I could get in easily; she'd probably just _love_ for me to come by for a little "chat." Besides, I had access to most of the School—or I thought I still had access. Maybe the Director canceled my access; maybe if I walked in the door, I'd be shot on sight. That would screw up my plan real good, wouldn't it?

'We don't need the blueprints, Angel," I said. "And why? Because I know that place like the back of my hand."

"But what if they _didn't_ take him there?" Nudge interjected. "If they got him away that fast, they might've taken him, like, all the way to the headquarters! And that's in _Germany_! We couldn't get _there_ in time . . ."

"They wouldn't kill him right off," Max mused, tapping her index finger on her chin. "If it's a trap—"

"Which it's bound to be," Iggy interrupted in a low voice, covering that sentence with a cough. Max smacked him before continuing.

"—then they're gonna want us in close before they rip us to shreds."

I paused, thinking. They'd only snatched him because they wanted _me_. Kidnap the sidekick-slash-semi-boyfriend and attract the ticked-off failed assassin. Yep. That was the only logical explanation for all this. Which meant one thing: I had to go alone. I'd trade myself for him. They probably didn't want him, anyway; after all, he too was "defective," according to their "standards." He had a bad wing that sometimes wouldn't retract all the way. He longed to survive, to have a different life. And me? Well, I'd probably die anyway, sooner or later, probably sooner. Saving him at the expense of myself, while as scary a thought as ever existed, was a rather noble thought. A little stupid, maybe, but still noble. And I figured it was worth a shot. I turned and looked at the others for a long, long time before sighing.

"Look," I said, closing my eyes and pinching the bridge of my nose as I hammered out the rest of this plot, "you know _why_ they took him? Because they want to get _me_ back. Well, we'll give 'em me. They've probably got him locked up somewhere tight . . . All we have to do is sneak in, find the Director, and offer her a bargain: turn Derek loose in exchange for me. Simple."

I dunno _what_ I was thinking would happen, but nobody seemed to jump for that plan. Nobody went "Oh, yes, Del! Let's send you into the jaws of death so Derek might live!" Nudge just stared at me for_ever_ before she spoke, and the words she spoke were thick with heavy disbelief.

"You've _got_ to be kidding me."

"No way!" Iggy emphatically cried, finding his way to me and clenching my hand. My heart twisted. Max nodded her assent.

"Agreed," she said with that firm tone of "I'm the boss and that's that." "We're not giving you over to them, _period_. We'll get in, we'll grab Derek, and we'll get out."

At that point, I didn't _care_ that she was the almighty Maximum Ride, champion of bird kids' rights and all that crap. What I cared about currently was getting Derek back—in one piece. I sighed, resisting the urge to clench my fists harder or maybe roll my eyes. As far as I could tell, she didn't understand the severity of this situation. By now, Itex wanted me dead or alive—probably preferably _dead_.

"You don't get it, Max," I murmured, keeping my voice low so I didn't scream and pitch a fit. "We can't risk all seven of us—"

"_Eight!_" Total interrupted. I sighed.

"—all _eight_ of us trying to bring him home, either before we get there or once we have him. The Director will _never_ let us get away with that. She wants _me_, Max—_me_. What's more, she wants you—_all_ of you—dead. You'll be walking right into her hands if we all go. No, Max; I have to go by myself. I can get him out safely. Let me do it this way, Max. _Please._ The Director's looking for somebody to punish; it may as well be me because the rest of you haven't done anything."

"We're _all_ going," Max retorted sharply, startling me. "That's FINAL!"

Iggy cautiously warned me that it'd be better to just go ahead and let Max have her way. I just frowned and crossed my arms, putting most of my weight on one hip as I weighed this situation. On the one hand, I'd have backup. On the other, I'd have liabilities. If it were just me going in, the Director might—_might_—be willing to cut a deal. Then again, she might just shoot me in the head and keep Derek anyway. Talk about a dilemma. Besides, her wanting me back was probably starting to eat away at her; I knew that much. But there was nothing stopping her from beating Derek to death while she was waiting for her little prize (me) to be returned. For all I knew, she was probably torturing him as I stood around thinking up a plan! I was _not_ willing to lose Derek because Max insisted on getting her way!

So I was silent for a long, _long_ time, lips pursed, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed, mind churning. My first thought? "Y'know, if I just took off _right now_ and flew as hard and fast as I know how, I could be out of here and on my way _there_ before these kids could figure out what'd happened." My wings itched to snap open; it _was_ a good plan, and I could make it happen. No, I sure as hell didn't want to die, but I didn't want Derek to die, either! So Max and I pretty much had a lovely little standoff, both of us silent, each of us glaring hard at the other. Think of something from one of those old Western flicks where the two big, bad gunslingers are facing each other and one says to the other, "This town ain't big enough for the two of us." Eventually, Nudge glanced over at me.

"Um, Del . . . ?" she said—and rather cautiously, I might add. It was as if she feared that one wrong word could set me off like a stick of dynamite.

I didn't answer her. I was still thinking, still trying to bore holes into Max with my hard gaze. After another couple minutes, Max sighed; her gaze on me softened considerably.

"I guess we all just . . . need to relax for a bit," she murmured, and the others all did as she suggested. And me? Well . . .

I clearly did _not_ relax. If anything, my posture straightened as I scowled hard_er_ (if that were even possible) at her. My wings fluttered slightly; I was getting ready to lunge at her and knock her to the ground if she said another word about all of us going for Derek. I know, I know; you're all wondering why I didn't want backup. It's simple. I didn't want to lose Iggy, too.

"I _can't_ relax!" I hissed. "It's impossible to, knowing he's at that hellhole taking a beating intended for _me_! If I could just get in there and take his place, he'd be all right, and the rest of you wouldn't have to risk your freedom, too!"

Wow. Talk about a complete three-sixty from where I'd been a little more than a week earlier. My mindset then: "The Flock must die so I might have a chance! They already had a life; I haven't yet!" My mindset now: "I can't lose Derek _or_ Iggy. And if saving them means sacrificing me, then . . . I was probably gonna die soon anyway." Yeah. I hated the thought of dying with every fiber of my being, but if the last thing I saw before dying was Derek and Iggy flying away to safety, maybe—_maybe_—it'd be worth it.

Anyway, Nudge scampered over to me and gripped my shoulder, wide, dark eyes filled with concern and even a touch of sympathy.

"Hey, don't talk like that!" she said. "You know he wouldn't want to see _you_ hurt, either! We've just gotta . . . y'know . . . take this in stride!"

"And I'm not about to let you go off and try to sacrifice yourself again," Iggy hissed at my ear, making me wheel about in shock. He still thought I'd saved his life even though it'd just been Plan Martyrdom? I guessed that, in a way, I _had_ been trying to save him. I frowned.

"And just why not?" I asked, voice low.

"_This_ is why," he replied.

Next thing I knew, he'd wrapped his arm around my waist, pulled me in, and was now kissing me—_hard_—on the mouth. I could see and hear Nudge gawking; Max sighed and went off to "investigate" the rest of the rubble from the explosion before any cops showed up; the rest of the kids just kind of looked the other way. And me? Well, at first, I was shocked; this wasn't exactly the best time to kiss me, after all! But then . . . after a minute . . . I relaxed and closed my eyes, leaning into him as my arms slid around his neck. I hadn't been intending to kiss him twice in two days, but, well . . . it just sort of happened. After a minute, I pulled back, arms still draped over his shoulders. He gave me a smile and touched my face, and, though I still wanted to go after Derek on my own, I felt as if I'd been selfish. After all, Derek was everybody's friend; they all loved him, too. So I sighed and nodded, disentangling myself from Iggy's grasp.

"All right, Max," I said, getting her attention and getting myself back in "Let's go kick Itex's butt" mode. "You win, but on one condition."

Max lifted a brow at me. I grinned wickedly.

"That we get out there and kick ass before there's none left to kick!"

That said, I snapped out my wings and leaped skyward, muscles straining to get me off the ground. But once I was airborne, it was smooth sailin' from there. Max leaped up after me, followed closely by Iggy, then by the others. We cruised back to the hotel to get cleaned up just as the cops arrived at the ex-transmitter tower to investigate that giant explosion. When we got refreshed at the hotel room, we all grabbed up our stuff again and persuaded the night clerk at the front desk to check us out of our room. While it'd been nice, we didn't need it right now, and it made no sense to rack up a huge bill if we weren't there. But after we convinced the clerk to check us out, I paid the bill, and we got out of there, flying full-speed out of San Francisco—and straight for the School.

_Hold on, Derek,_ I thought as the night wind whistled through my hair. _We're coming for you. And Director? I hope you're ready to meet your Maker, because when I get there, you're leaving this planet on the Del Express._


	25. 24: The Halls of Darkness

**A/N:** Derek to _JaxSolo_, Del to me, everybody else to James Patterson. Aaaaaaaand the plot picks up! YAY!

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-four – The Halls of Darkness**

We flew all night, resting only for a few minutes every couple of hours. We _had_ to get to Derek before we lost him for good, and flying under the cover of darkness was our best bet for getting to the School undetected. Max and I were at the head of the group, leading the way; Iggy wasn't too far back and just off my right wing, and Fang was close to Max's left. The others were fanned out behind us in something of a fighter wing formation; I had to admit, we looked pretty cool cruising along up there in the sky in the black of night. But coolness isn't what I was going for. I was after getting to the School as fast as possible, getting Derek, and getting right back out. And so, I was pouring every ounce of speed I could into my wings, flapping as hard and fast as I knew how. It got to a point where I was still going and going (kind of like the Energizer bunny, y'know?) and the Flock was falling behind. Even Max had to work harder to keep up with me, and once when she managed to come up even with me, she glanced over at me and made a little jibe.

"That extra one percent works wonders, huh?"

I blinked; oh, right. I _could_ go higher, faster, farther than the rest of them could. Oh well. So I slacked back on my pace, drifting back to the others—either that or they caught up with me. Then I chuckled wryly.

"Well, that, and twelve hours per day of strength training might have something to do with it, too."

"Dang," Nudge said, coming up closer behind me; she sounded out of breath. "You're goin' faster than we _ever_ did! Well, except for Max. She's got supersonic flight!"

My eyebrows shot sky-high; that sure was news. I'd never heard of Max having _supersonic_ flight . . . Maybe she was a little more special than I thought. The more I was with these kids, the more I realized just how valuable they'd once been to Itex. But now they were like me: they'd gone "rogue," discovering their emotions and how precious freedom is. Now they were liabilities to Itex rather than assets, and that was why _I_ had been created. In a way, I wanted to thank Max and her crew for tenaciously escaping the School and making their own way because, well, if it weren't for them, I probably wouldn't be alive right now. So, yeah, if you wanna get specific and poetic and all that, I guess you could say that I technically owed Max my life. Well, I did anyway because she didn't up and kill me when it turned out I'd been sent to kill _her_. She gave me a second chance, and I appreciated that more than anything. So you know what I did? I told her so. Everyone went silent after that. Max just _looked_ at me. She didn't say a word. Maybe she was surprised. Maybe she didn't know quite how to respond. Maybe she was just pensive. But then she reached over and squeezed my shoulder. And, well, I felt as if I'd arrived because I'd been _accepted_. Yeah, I felt better about the whole I'm-gonna-die-in-four-years thing because these kids were _my_ friends now, too, and they'd make my last few years on Earth worthwhile.

We got within striking distance of the School early the next morning. We were all exhausted from that night flight, and even though I wanted to just hurry up and go rescue Derek, Max overruled me. Instead, she made us all just take a long breather. We landed in a grove of scraggly pine trees about a half-mile away from the School; I could see the facility's buildings spread out across the bare land, and it made my blood boil to know that Derek was in there, probably helpless. And then I remembered the nightmare I'd had on my first night in San Francisco, and I froze. If Derek were in there, being tortured more than likely to death, then Batchelder wouldn't be able to help him. Now, I'm no fan of Batchelder's, but he was responsible for Derek. He'd have an obligation to help him, to get him out of that hellhole! But if my dream were transpiring not a mile away, then he _wouldn't_ be able to help because those blasted guards would be holding him back. I only managed to shove that dream from my mind when Max offered me a granola bar and a bottle of water and told me to keep my strength up.

After about an hour, we'd all eaten and taken short naps. We were alert, refreshed, and more than ready to kick Itex butt. As I sat there on a nice, sturdy branch, slowly chewing my second granola bar, I glanced around at the others.

"So do we wanna come in from above?" I asked. "Y'know, do a surprise Pearl Harbor-type attack?"

Yes, I'm familiar with American history. It's called the _Internet_. You should try it sometime. But, sarcasm aside, Fang inclined his head toward me, peering out from under his dark, shaggy hair at me.

"Or _you_ could walk right through the front door," he said, in what was probably _the_ most words he'd _ever_ spoken to me. I twisted my lips in thought.

"If you'd suggested that a week ago, I could've. Now they're probably lookin' to shoot me on sight."

"Well, _that's_ fun," Max muttered, sarcasm edging her words. I scoffed in agreement, absently rubbing my side—the spot where I'd been shot during Plan Martyrdom all those days ago.

"I say we do the Pearl Harbor thing," Iggy suggested. I hid a smile with my hand; of course _he'd_ say that. Max sighed and shook her head.

"Too noisy."

"We could do, like, a _silent_ Pearl Harbor thing," Gazzy piped up. "With maybe . . . _one_ bomb?"

"Actually, that idea of walking through the front door sounds inviting," I said, mulling over how I'd make that work. Either I'd take the bullet to the heart the minute I crossed the threshold, or I'd come up with some lie about how I was kidding with abandoning my mission; that one would require faith that the Director wouldn't be PO'ed with me anyway. "I hope they serve refreshments, because I dunno about you, but granola bars just don't cut it."

"When we've been dining on five-star cuisine?" Total asked me, boredly scratching behind his ear with a rear paw. "Hardly."

Angel touched my arm and made me look at her; her big blue eyes just locked with mine as she shook her head "no." I guess that meant that my walking through the front door wouldn't work. I asked her why; she just leaned over to my right ear and whispered two words: sniper rifles. Oh, crap. The Director had snipers posted on the front entrance. Ohhh, _crap_. So I sighed and told everyone that I would _not_ be walking through the front door of the School. Max then turned and gave each of her bomb-happy boys a _long_ look. The effect was lost on Iggy, and I felt so bad for him that I traded my tree branch for his and cuddled up beside him. Yes, aww.

"One bomb," Max stated firmly. "_One._ _Comprende_?"

"Copy that!" Iggy replied, beaming. I gripped his hand and looked at Gazzy, now in all seriousness.

"I don't care _where_ you drop it," I told the two, "but wherever you drop it, make sure it hits _dead center_."

"Can do!" Gazzy replied, giving me a quick salute. "Let's go!"

So we all launched off from our branches, soaring high into the sky—well out of range of sniper rounds, I might add. Max sighed and rolled her eyes as we all started toward the School.

"Why do I feel like I'm gonna regret this . . . ?" she mumbled. I smothered a smirk, instead concentrating my gaze on Iggy's red hair snapping in the brisk breeze. Nudge sighed not too far behind me.

"Probably because the last time you left them alone with bombs, they practically blew up our _house_ . . ."

"Did not!" Gazzy called back to her, shooting her a dirty look while he was at it. "Besides, it wasn't our fault!"

I just sighed, trying to hold off any snide comments, but it was hard because I'm really not very good at that. But then . . . a short while later . . . we saw it. The School was right beneath us, and even from the air, it looked as mean and wicked as it was on the inside. I took a short breath; at one point, that'd been "home." I hadn't liked it, but I'd been stuck with it. So much had happened there . . . I'd done a lot of nasty things in there, namely slaughtering all my "nest-mates." I swallowed hard but then felt Max's hand tight on my shoulder, squeezing it. I just turned and looked at her, giving her a grateful smile. That smile was strained, though; now I had to worry about what Derek was maybe going through at that very minute. I almost voiced this, but then I realized that we were _all_ worried for Derek. I just sighed and looked ahead again at Iggy and Gazzy, who were carrying a good-sized bomb between them, then down at the School.

"All right," I said. "Now's as good a time as any. Max, will you do the honors of ordering those pyromaniacs to drop their payload?"

It was only fair, after all. Max had as much, if not more, of an emotional attachment (or lack thereof) to the School. That was where her family had been created, you see. So, I guess, she _deserved_ to be ordering the hit on that hellhole. It wasn't my call to make this time, and even though I'm such a go-getter, it really wasn't all that hard to just step back and say "Y'know what? This is her show." Max just grinned at me; yep, she'd been looking forward to this for a _long_ time.

"With pleasure!"

She watched Iggy and Gazzy until Gazzy motioned back with a big okay sign that meant that the bomb was ready. Max glanced down once; an almost vindicated smirk flashed across her face, then . . .

"DROP YOUR LOAD!"

Gazzy grinned so big that I thought that smile would fall right off his face. He and Iggy just let the bomb fall before peeling away, soaring higher. I pulled up and rose to meet them; I wanted an—ahem—bird's eye view of the explosion. If we were extra-lucky, it'd land right on the Director's lap. I knew that if she weren't dead by the end of this day, I would be _so_ seriously twirked that I'd be liable to hurt someone.

Two seconds later, the west quadrant of the School—the place of my origins—went up in a huge fireball, launching bits of the roof and equipment miles into the air. I. Just. _Stared._ Now how those boys had gotten the materials to make an almost military-grade bomb, I had _no_ idea! But all that mattered to me and the Flock was that robot parts and various scientist bits went flying all over. We all started whooping and hollering, cheering that we'd _finally_ gotten a hit in edgewise on these jerks. Sure, we had yet to rescue Derek, but we'd let them know we were pissed! But then something that might have, on a good day, resembled a human arm flew past Nudge, and she let out this _huge_ squeal of disgusted horror.

"EW! OMIGOSH THAT WAS AN _ARM_! _SO_ GROSS! _EEW!_"

I just rolled my eyes and chuckled at her, watching in mild amusement as she rapidly shook her head to try to shake out that sight. I motioned to Fang and Max, waving them to my sides as I prepped to dive down there; we had a friend to save, and I was gonna need backup. But then we all noticed that something was moving down there. Max sent Angel down on a recon run, and Angel went willingly, cruising close to the ground before zipping back up to the rest of us.

"All bits of robots and whitecoats," she announced. "Most injured."

"And oh, man, that was _awesome_!" the Gasman cheered, getting me to crack a smile.

As he zipped over to high-five Iggy, Max, Fang, and I tucked in our wings and dove for the ground, careful to keep our eyes peeled for anything that looked like a sniper. Maybe we'd distracted them, or maybe they'd been hit by the blast. Oh, now wouldn't _that_ be fun . . . ! I was in the lead of our heroic little trio, eyes narrowed as the wind whistled through my hair and feathers; a few moments later, I landed rather hard in the front courtyard, too wrapped up in this whole thing to stop to make a decent landing. Not too far from me, some stupid Flyboy was crushed under what was once a wall of the west quad. It was trying to get up, trying to come after us, but I just ran over and swiftly kicked its head loose. It rolled away, sparking, and I hurriedly glanced around, my super-sharp vision taking in everything at once. Then . . . aha! Treasure! Over there, not a hundred feet from where I stood, lay a dead scientist; he'd been crushed by a falling wall. Next to him, just out of what would've been his reach had he been alive, was a pistol. A _loaded_ pistol. There was already a bullet in the chamber, as far as I could tell. So what did I do? Why, I scurried over and scooped it up, of course! Yes, I'd been given pistol training back in my days here. It was all part of making me Itex's war machine. Besides, there was no _way_ that I was going to be unarmed and dangerous. I'd rather be _armed_ and dangerous. _That_ was more fun. But then my bubble was burst by Max soaring down alongside me; she gave me a _looooong_ look.

"You sure about a gun?" she asked me. "Could get messy . . ."

In my peripheral vision, I saw Fang roll his eyes and mutter something under his breath. He wasn't just standing around, however; he was ducking behind some caved-in drywall, checking out the scene even as alarms blared all around us. I arched an eyebrow at Max and checked the clip. Still fully loaded. Whoever had owned this (I expected it'd been that scientist) hadn't gotten a shot off yet.

"I'm _positive_ about a gun," I replied fiercely. "If that witch has hurt Derek in _any_ way, she is gettin' a slug from this baby right through the ear."

"Ew," said Nudge with a grimace as she landed behind Max. I glared at her; yep, adrenaline was flowing _hard_, making me into a lean, mean, fighting machine.

"Look, sweetheart, this is _war_," I told her. "War is not pretty."

With that, I turned and darted into the building, shouldering my way through a half-melted steel door and waving Max and Fang after me. The others landed and followed us, and we jogged through the demolished west quadrant, looking for Derek. I just hoped he hadn't been there in the west quad when we'd dropped the bomb . . . But I was running flat-out through the School, bursting into every lab in search of Derek. But then from somewhere that I hoped was far away, I could hear loud, angry howling. Oh, dammit . . . They'd let loose the wolf-boys! These were the _good_ leftovers—the executioners. _These_ were the ones that'd claw into me if I slowed down long enough for them to catch up. Silent as a shadow, Fang appeared at my side, matching my hurried pace with long strides of his own.

"Sounds like . . ." he began, but trailed off. I nodded bracingly.

"Yeah, but let's hope it's _not_."

Max had heard it too; she was waving the others ahead, making them pick up the pace, urging them to hurry it up because we _had_ to find Derek! Iggy demanded to know where we should start, and I frowned. Time to fix this little problem. I kicked open the door of the next lab I came to and found that the little scientists in there were scared silly by one of two things: the bombing or our wild rampage. I figured it was the bombing. But I strode in, sharply raising the pistol and aiming it squarely at them.

"First one to tell me where Subject Seventeen is," I barked, "_DOESN'T_ get his head blown off!"

All the scientists simply froze, and they all immediately raised their hands. One of them dove under a desk before I saw his hands pop up. I scowled at them. "We're unarmed and innocent," _riiiight_ . . . Unarmed, maybe; innocent, hell _no_. But none of the scientists answered me, and I let my hard frown deepen as I cocked the pistol. It clicked, they jumped, I let out a slow, even breath.

"Tell. Me. NOW."

Call me impatient, but I wouldn't be able to take much more of this charade before I cut loose. Besides, these guys (well, maybe not these ones _exactly_, but you get my point) had designed and then trained me to be the best, to be a cold, calculating killer, and now all that work was coming back to bite them on the butts. I was very, _very_ tempted to blow out their kneecaps and leave them there to bleed to death, trust me.

Y'know how, in movies and on TV, a few threats make anybody spill their guts? Apparently, the School's goons didn't watch those shows. Nobody said a word. If anything, they got only _more_ scared. Max sighed and leaned in close to me even as I kept that pistol trained on the scientists.

"Del, I think you're bein' rash," she muttered, then raised her voice. "Guys, listen. You tell us where they've got a kid maybe as tall as him—" She nodded over to Fang. "Hawk mix, funky red-brown eyes . . ."

Fang reached over and put his hand atop my gun hand, trying to lower my aim. I jerked my hand out from under his and kept that pistol aimed at the scientists.

"_You_ named him Subject Seventeen," I spat. "_You_ tell me where he is. _NOW!_"

For added emphasis, I pointed the pistol at a countertop and squeezed the trigger, shooting out a test tube. I realized only after I'd pulled that trigger that the test tube had had a human embryo in it. I felt a brief, hard pang of remorse. That kid, even though it'd been "just" an embryo, _was_ still human. Like me. Like Derek. Like Max. Then again, the scientists might've been doing something horrible to that poor kid's genes. In a way, I might've just saved him from having a miserable, pain-filled existence. That didn't ease the guilt much, though, and it filled me with stronger hate toward these Itex scientists. I shot out another test tube, this one empty, and one skinny little scientist leaped up, hands atop his head in surrender.

"They—they took him down the hall to the psychosis lab!" he sputtered, hands still atop his head, fingers interlocked. "That's all I know, I swear!"

Angel nudged the back of my left hand and whispered that he was telling the truth. Then and _only_ then did I relax, but then his words sunk in, and my blood ran absolutely cold. _Psychosis_ . . . That was the word the Director had mentioned to me! That meant . . . Oh, God. They were trying to reinforce his emotionless . . . No . . . _no!_ I wouldn't let them! Not waiting, I turned tail and ran from the lab, leaving the terrified scientists behind. Max raced after me, but not after yelling for the others to just stay put. I just kept going, head spinning, heart pounding. No, not Derek . . . not Derek . . . had to stop them . . . had to save him . . . ! It helped that I knew where this lab was, too; it meant I could get to Derek faster.

As I kept running, I found that all the security doors were unlocked and half-open, as if the Director were just _waiting_ for me to walk right into her little trap. At that point, I didn't care. I was so very rabid with fear for Derek that I _just didn't care_. I glanced over my shoulder at Max; she was trying so hard to keep up with me. It was then that I remembered that, back in San Francisco, she'd asked for help from Batchelder—her _father_.

"You say you have somebody on the inside?" I asked, starting to pant. She nodded.

"Yeah, Jeb. I don't know if he'd talk or not, though . . ."

"Well, he's obviously opening these doors for us," I said. "Unless this is more of the trap."

I just _knew_ that's what it was, but, well . . . I wanted something good to happen for once. I still didn't trust Batchelder as far as I could throw him, but if he were opening doors for me, then I'd take that help. For now. Later, I'd punch his lights out. When Max wasn't looking. Yeah.

I kept running until I came to one lone hall at the end of a long, stark white hallway. The sign on it bore the two words I was both waiting for and dreading: _PSYCHOSIS LAB_. I stopped cold, shuddering to think what was happening in there, but I gathered myself and strode to the door, shouldering it open and storming right in, my pistol still clenched tightly in my hand. Max followed, and we froze when we saw Derek strapped down to some electric chair-like thing, twitching violently. My chest tightened, but then I snapped out of it when two guards turned on us—two _Eraser_ guards, I might add. I just whipped that pistol up and fired two shots, one for each of them. My aim was sure, and my hand never wavered, because those bullets hit home right between those Erasers' eyes, and the dog-boys crumpled to the floor. Blood started pooling on the linoleum around them the minute they hit the ground, and Max and I ran right inside the lab. Max started undoing the straps that held Derek pinned to the table as I tried to hold him still, but he was twitching so hard that he knocked me off balance. Max looked at me, dark eyes wide.

"See if you can find something to shut it down!" she yelled at me.

It took me a minute to process what she'd just said, but when it did, I got up and ran over to the console. Helplessness was starting to set in as I just started pressing random buttons, hoping that I wasn't doing more damage . . . The pistol clattered from my hand onto the cold linoleum, but I didn't care.

"I don't see anything!" I cried, feeling and sounding more desperate than I could ever remember feeling and sounding.

"Keep trying!" Max yelled back, still pinning Derek down.

I kept frantically searching for _anything_ that might be what I was looking for until I saw a red lever labeled "Emergency Shutoff." Wrenching that lever as hard as I could, I heard something behind me wind down with a buzz. That did it. It _had_ to have. I darted to Derek—he wasn't twitching anymore—and I sank down at his side, grabbing his shoulders and giving him a hard shake.

"Derek?" I urged, shaking him. "_DEREK!_ Oh, c'mon, don't die on me . . ."

There was only a very faint groan from him as Max finished undoing that last strap. Then she started to heft him off that chair, waving me over to help.

"All right," she said. "He's out cold, but he's free, so let's bail!"

_Was_ he free, though? What if that psychosis had already made him into what I was supposed to have been? I didn't have time to think on this, though, because as soon as Max turned toward the door, it swung shut, and its deadbolt loudly ratcheted, sealing us inside. Max started looking around for any other doors, but there were none; even if they had been, they would've been sealed. The hair on the back of my neck stood straight up, and my eyes darted all over the room as I threw my arms protectively around Derek, almost shielding his body with my own. The word that came to mind at that moment was "oops" even though . . . well . . . that was a _severe_ understatement.

"We're so screwed," I muttered, looking at Max even as I held Derek.

And why did I feel this way? Because this was a _huge_ trap that I'd just walked right into. Here was I, Project Delilah, having been bred and trained to be better, faster, stronger, _smarter_, yet I'd proved myself to be as dumb as a brick because I'd walked into what was so blatantly obviously a trap.

"I thought we were smarter than thiiiis . . ." Max groaned, looking about ready to smack her forehead with her palm.

I was about to respond when a familiar, ice-cold voice came over the intercom, making me freeze in anger and hatred as well as outright terror.

"_Of course _you_ thought so, Max,"_ said the Director over the intercom. Apparently she was too much of a coward to speak to us in person. _"You, too, Delilah. A pity, though, that both of you are such _utter_ failures."_

I glanced up toward the ceiling. There, in a corner of the room, was a small black orb that just screamed "Hello, I'm a security camera!" at me. I knew the Director would be watching, so you know what I did? I flipped her The Finger. Oh, yes, she _so_ deserved it . . .

"You trained me to be a killer, to fight," I hissed. "Now that I'm doing that, you can't very well call me a failure, can you? Or maybe I'm considered one because your training me is coming back to bite you on the butt!"

"_It is because you have _failed_ your mission,"_ the Director replied fiercely; ooh, she hadn't liked that any more than I'd thought she had. _"__You turned traitor as much as Batchelder has, much as he tries to hide it . . . But I _always_ have a secondary plan. And, thankfully, all it takes is a word for him to wake up, and force the psychosis to take full hold."_

"You wouldn't dare, you bitch," Max hissed.

"If you're expecting me to kill him, I won't!" I cried to that camera there in the ceiling, rising to my feet. "There's always a way to break this! And to Batchelder, I say good job! _Somebody_ needs to see through you and your puppets, and it might as well be him! You're a bitch, your father was a bastard, and you all should go to hell!"

A cold laugh echoed over the intercom, filling the room with its horribly icy sound and making chill bumps rise all over my arms.

"_No, no,"_ the Director said. _"Nothing as stupid as that. _You_ are not going to kill him, nor he you. So, there are a few ways we can do this."_

Max and I started nudging Derek in the ribs, hoping that he'd wake up soon and be willing to do his teleportation thing to get us all out of there! I gave Derek several hard shakes; nothing. Dammit. I shot a dirty look at the ceiling.

"Then you just name those options," I growled. "I bet you ten bucks I won't take any of 'em."

There was a soft sigh from the Director, and that's when I realized that my original plan of playing both sides against the middle that was me had failed miserably. I'd thought I'd been playing the Director like a fiddle when _she_ was the master violinist here.

"_Oh, Delilah, you are so ignorant,"_ she sighed, _"but I shall humor you. The first, your obvious choice, is resisting. I tell you now to not do it, because if you do, your other friends will be shot."_

Max and I froze and looked at each other. The others? _Shot?!_ My thoughts flew to Iggy; I hoped he and the others had the foresight make themselves scarce until the Director got her just deserts! Max prodded Derek a little harder as the Director continued listing my "options."

"_Your second option is cooperation. You will all live, and, eventually, we will release you all. _Eventually._"_

I scoffed. The hell she would. I knew that, as soon as she got her hands on me and the Flock, it'd be like old times for them and a new experience for me, what with the miserable existence centered around a dog crate that was big enough curl up in but too small to stand up or stretch out. She went on.

"_The third: I awaken Derek, and he subdues you whether you're willing to be or not."_

That option made my blood run cold. She was going to turn Derek loose on us. Maybe that little psychosis thing _had_ worked and he was going to be a far worse assassin than I'd been bred to be—because he'd be almost robotic. All the color drained from my face as I stared at the camera. She wouldn't . . . No, I take it back; she _would_. But I couldn't take option one, two, _or_ three! So I put on my best, most arrogant smirk.

"You're wrong, Director," I said, keeping my voice calm and level. "There are _four_ choices. The fourth, to refuse everything and get out of here alive, _with the others_, is the one I'm taking."

I looked over at Max and dropped my voice, telling her to get Batchelder into that lab _now_. I neither trusted nor liked him, but right now, he was pretty much all we had! I'd be mean and mistrusting to him later, after all of us made it out alive and the School was little more than a pile of crispy Eraser bits strewn across the exercise yard. There was silence from the Director—angry, brooding silence. Oh well. She could just be mad if she wanted to be. I looked down at Derek; he was still out cold, face pale, chest barely rising and falling. I grabbed his shoulders again, wanting him to wake up, or else I'd . . . well, I'd be a very unhappy teenaged mutant human-avian! And I didn't stop myself when I leaned down and kissed him. Maybe I was hoping that, like in all those fuzzy Disney movies, that that kiss would somehow do the trick and make him wake up, make him be all right. Max hissed that I didn't have time for making out, but I just waved her off as I held Derek, trying to will him into awakening.

It was kind of like kissing my arm, I guess, because Derek was pale and clammy, not to mention unmoving, but I kept at it. I just held him for almost five minutes before he shifted and stirred in my arms. I pulled back long enough to see his eyelids flutter open before I kissed him again . . . and this time, he kissed me back. He weakly reached up to touch my face.

"Del . . ." he whispered. "What're you doin' here . . . ?"

"We couldn't well leave you," Max said, and I nodded emphatically.

"Shh," I told him, smoothing his sweat-dampened hair, grateful that he wasn't leaping up and trying to rip my lungs out. "We're gonna get you out of here. Can you walk?"

"Dunno . . ."

"Better question," Max interjected. "Can you get us _out_ of here?"

"_Oh, no,"_ came the Director's voice over the intercom again. This time her voice was just boiling over with anger. _"You are not getting away _that_ easily. Subject Seventeen . . . _subdue_ them."_

I almost backed away to save my own skins, but I just watched Derek. He gingerly lifted an arm, and I was readying myself to break it if he tried to attack me . . . but then he gave the Director the finger. That's my Mark Two!

"Go to hell," he mumbled. I nearly squealed and hugged him. Instead, I just nodded once.

"I second the motion!"

But then the Director scoffed over the intercom.

"_If you expect him to spirit you both away, you are wrong, Delilah,"_ she said icily. I could envision the scowl on her smarmy face._ "His ability is hindered by __places he can envision, places he has been and has ties to. He won't be able to help you."_

"I can sure as hell try!" Derek croaked out, trying to sit up. I just pushed him back down and scowled up at the ceiling. That woman was _reeeeally_ starting to get on my nerves.

"Anybody ever tell you you're a bitch?" I growled. "Because, y'know, I wanna be the first."

"Del," Max said flatly. "I already told her."

I scowled. Well, _fine_. Just go ruin my big moment next time, Max. _Sigh._ Anyway, while Derek was trying to get himself up (he said he could try to spirit us all away if I could see the others), I glanced across the room and saw where I'd dropped "my" pistol on the floor, so I got up and scampered for it, grabbing it and making sure the safety was _off_. Then I aimed it up at the camera in the corner, eyes narrowed.

"Look, Director," I said, "next time, be a bigger woman and try to kill me some other way than using my _friends_."

Then I squeezed the trigger. The camera exploded and rained glass down over the doorway just as Batchelder burst through. His sudden entrance so startled me that I had that pistol trained on his head in point-five seconds, and the only think that kept me from blowing him to kingdom come was Max shouting my name. But I didn't lower the gun. Batchelder paused, his gaze meeting and holding mine. He had that . . . that _look_ to him again—y'know, the one where it seemed as if he were staring _through_ me?

"Del," Batchelder said gently, eyes still boring through me. "You're safe now, Del. It's okay. Put the gun down."

My hand shook once and only once. I wasn't going to pull that trigger while Max and Derek were there, that was for sure. Maybe after they left I would. Or I'd leave Batchelder alive and make him answer all my questions. I could feel Max's gaze latched hard onto me, and I heard Derek murmur for me to relax, but I kept that pistol trained right between Batchelder's eyes. Every little moment where I'd run into him or seen him watching me came back, reminding me just how much he frightened me. He was walking toward me now, but I couldn't move. Then he just put his hand on top of mine and pushed it down; the pistol clattered onto the floor from my hand. He just _looked_ at me again.

"You're okay, Del," he told me.

I just nodded as if I'd been suddenly struck both mute and stupid; then I remembered Derek (even though I'd never truly forgotten) and returned to his side. He looked as if he were in pain, but he kept trying to stand. After smiling at Max and receiving a big, relieved grin from her, Batchelder came over to Derek and gently pushed him back against the chair.

"Take it easy, kiddo," he said. "We're gonna get this unlocked."

"Thank God," Max murmured before she looked up at Batchelder—her _father_—with worried eyes. "Jeb, what about the others? _She_ said they were bound to get shot . . ."

That was when I realized just how much the others meant to Max. I mean, they were her _family_. And, well, I kind of had a personal stake in the Flock's wellbeing, too; any guy who kisses me more than once automatically qualifies as one who'll get help from me in times of trouble.

"As far as I can tell, they're fine," Batchelder said, and Max visibly relaxed. I wasn't quite ready to relax, though; I had to know if Batchelder could fix Derek.

"You can help him, though, right?" I asked, keeping my voice cold when it came to Batchelder. There was _no_ way that I'd make nice now. He looked over at me and sighed, looking a little sad again. Great.

"I can try the overrides I know," he said. I nodded briskly.

"All I wanted to know."

"You sure?" Max asked, not seeming as if _she_ were sure. "I mean . . . how bad might it get if it messes up? No offense or anythin'."

Derek leaned back, and he looked weak again, as if whatever brainwashing the Director and her cronies had worked on him was threatening to take him over again. I just squeezed his hand, and he squeezed back, albeit feebly. Batchelder looked at Max for a long time before sighing thinly.

"You really want to know?" he asked.

"Um, yes?" I replied before Max got a chance to even open her mouth. "If I'm going to trust Derek's life to you, then I want to know what might happen to him if you screw up!"

Batchelder looked at me, eyes kind of sad. I think he was wondering why I still didn't trust him, why I wasn't behaving like Max was. Well, as I wanted to tell him, I am clearly _not_ Max.

"It'll be like putting him in an electric chair," he said finally, and I reeled. My grip on Derek's hand got ever so much tighter before I finally mustered up a special-made glare just for Batchelder.

"You _wouldn't_ screw up," I said, voice low, almost hissing. "Not on your own _student_."

Max looked at me as if saying "What is your _problem_?" I just scowled at her, and Batchelder sighed, looking right at me. I was still holding Derek's hand as Batchelder came over and strapped him back into that contraption, getting everything that Max and I had undone tightened back up. Electrodes were fastened to Derek's temples, but I just sat beside him, squeezing his hand, wanting to tell him it'd be okay. Maybe he'd believe me if I told him that. Or maybe he'd just look at me and offer a wan smile that'd say "We both know it's not gonna work out like that, but if it makes you feel better to think so, okay." Derek looked at me once, and I noticed that he looked _frightened_. I gave his hand as hard a squeeze as I could manage, casting a glance at Batchelder as he settled at the control panel nearby. He took a deep breath and started pressing buttons, though not as randomly as I had. The machine started whirring, and I took a step back as Derek started twitching faintly. Max and I looked at each other, and I knew what she was thinking: _"It looks like he's getting electrocuted."_ I bit my lip so hard that it hurt as Derek seemed to waver between consciousness and unconsciousness, and I just watched him steadily until Batchelder sat back with a sigh and declared "There." Then I raced to Derek, ripped off the electrodes, and tore off those straps holding him down. Then his eyes blinked open. I was staring at him _so_ hard as if demanding to know how he was. Then he smiled—actually _smiled_! My heart skipped a nervous beat.

"Del . . ." he whispered. "I think it worked . . . !"

My eyes started watering as I dragged Derek to his feet and hugged him. _HARD._ I probably would've started bawling like a baby if we hadn't had other yet equally important things to be doing. I thought I almost saw a smile flicker across Batchelder's face, but I didn't feel an urge to go smack it off. I was just happy that Derek was _normal_ now! If it were Christmas and I hadn't received any presents but this, this would still be the best thing ever.

Even as I was still hugging Derek, squeezing him so tight I probably should've checked to make sure he could still breathe properly, Batchelder came over and patted Derek's shoulder before going to the door and opening it. I noticed that Max gave Batchelder a long, meaningful look; I figured it was her way of saying "Thanks, Dad; I owe you." I knew I'd never be able to accept that he was her _father_ because I still held that seed of distrust toward him. But right now, I was just so happy for Derek, but I eventually let him go. Then he just smiled at me and pecked my forehead before we left the lab to go follow Max. She'd already bounded out and was waiting anxiously in the corridor to head back toward where we'd left the others. It was at that point that I wondered where the Director had gone; she _had_ to have still been hanging around there _somewhere_. She was probably just lurking, waiting, for me to slip up in such a way that the Flock _and_ me would go tumbling right into her greedy, conniving hands. I looked up and down the hall, making sure that I could neither hear nor see those Eraser mongrels that I'd heard earlier.

"We should head back to where we left them," I stated. "_She_ might have been bluffing."

True, she could've been. But have I ever known her to bluff? Uh, no. Max glared at me.

"Then again," she muttered firmly, "she might've already told her cronies to take aim."

Derek came out of the psychosis lab, and I noticed that he was staggering just a little. Then I noticed a patch of drying blood on his side and hissed in a breath. What had these Itex devils _done_ to him? I knew what they'd _tried_ to do; it's what they'd already _done_ that I didn't know.

"Y'know," he said, sounding exhausted. "I could try to leap to wherever they are . . . break 'em through."

"Easy," I told him, slipping over to his side and taking hold of his elbow to steady him. "You've been through enough already."

Batchelder then murmured something about tracking us all through the security systems and making sure we were and _stayed_ all right, then the next minute, he was gone. My brows furrowed; I wasn't sure whether to believe what he said and appreciate the help or wonder if he were going instead to inform the Director of where I was or something. Then again, _would_ the Director need a little informant? After all, I still had this little tracker tattoo on me; she surely didn't need help when she had _that_. But I still didn't trust Batchelder, so what did I decide to do? Send Max with him. I looked over at her.

"Y'know, we could split up," I suggested easily. "I'll take Derek and we'll go back to where we left the others. Then you can go with Batchelder and see what there is to see on his side."

_Which would be, uh, whether or not he's going turncoat on you, Max,_ I added to myself, biting off a sigh.

It was a good suggestion, right? It covered all my bases, allowing me to rescue Derek and check on the others while Max kept an eye on Batchelder, right? So that made it a _great_ suggestion! But Max didn't think so, oh no! Instead, she just stared at me as if I'd turned into a complete and total _idiot_ without my knowing it.

"No way!" she exclaimed. "I _have_ to make sure!"

"I wouldn't mind taking it easy," Derek murmured, then hissed in a breath, pressing a hand to his side. "Oh, ow . . ."

He leaned back against the wall, and I squeezed up beside him. Never had I felt _that_ concerned for him (well, not counting my whole "I'll trade myself for him if you'll drop me off" thing), but I got close to him and put my hand over his before reaching up and wiping sweat from his forehead with my other hand.

"Just take it easy," I murmured, noticing but not acknowledging the fact that Max was getting twitchier the more we lingered there in the corridor. "Relax a minute. You're gonna be at one-ten percent in no time at all."

Then I decided I'd try my hand at that whole healing business. I'd never told anyone, save Iggy, and he hadn't told anyone, either, as far as I knew. I just put my hand up under Derek's sweat-soaked shirt, my hand pressed firmly against his side, and exhaled slowly as I concocted a mental image of the wounded flesh healing right up. Then I closed my eyes and concentrated as hard as I could on that mental image, and I felt his side relax and weave back together over the next few seconds. Derek sighed in evident relief, and when I opened my eyes, he looked at me as if wondering "How did you _do_ that?" I gave him an equally meaningful look: "I'll tell you later." He nodded and clenched my hand when I pulled it back out from under his shirt.

"Thanks," he said softly. "Still wouldn't mind takin' it slow, though . . ."

And I didn't blame him! He'd had a helluva day (and last night) and probably hadn't enjoyed a minute. Max glared at us both with a look that clearly said "What is _wrong_ with you?! My family's out there in danger and you're standing here talking about taking it easy?! Are you _insane_?!" Why, yes, Max, I am. Stark-raving BONKERS, if you must know.

"I HAVE to make sure they're okay!" she cried. "I am NOT waiting around!"

Then she turned on heel and bolted off down the corridor like a flash, arms pumping wildly at her sides as she raced away and back down the winding hallways. Damn, she sure was tenacious—sure, a little stupid for running into a probable _trap_, but still tenacious. I turned and looked straight at Derek.

"Okay," I said. "We'll take it slow. We'll catch up to her. I just . . ."

I sighed and trailed off as my thoughts drifted to Iggy. Was he all right? Was he even still alive? What if the Director had figured out just how much I liked him, and what if she'd taken him prisoner just to dangle him in front of me and torture me like that before slaughtering him right before my very eyes? What if she were waiting to kill him last, maybe just as I jogged up, so I'd have to _watch_ and not be able to stop it from happening? I grimaced and sighed.

"If the Director's actually . . . well . . ."

Fed them to the werewolves? Shot them all right between the eyes? Slit their throats? Strangled them? Turned them over to her minions and let them be raped to death? You want me to keep going with this or have you heard enough? Derek sighed.

"If she has, Max is going to go ballistic. _Or_ she'll kill every Itex person in sight . . ."

"The second option is . . . actually pretty good," I said as Derek and I started easing down the hall. "The first . . . not so much."

As I kept an ear open for any sounds of Eraser-ness, I mulled over what it might look like if Max went ballistic. It would be either heartbreaking or interesting. As we walked back toward where we'd left the others, I went back to listening for growls and the sounds of snapping fangs; I knew that, if we started getting chased, I'd have to just heft Derek over my shoulder, start running, and never look back. Speaking of Derek, I was getting just plain sentimental, so I looked over at him, snaking my hand into his so he wouldn't fall behind.

"And . . ." I went on. "If she'd actually . . . actually made you over, I'm not sure what I would've done."

Actually, I was _very_ sure of what I would've done. First, I would've tracked down the Director and shot her right between the eyes at point-blank range. Then I would've screamed and cried and thrown an all-around tantrum, complete with yelling "IT'S NOT FAIR!" at the top of my lungs. As I mulled over this plan of what I _would've_ done (but hadn't had to, thank God), Derek turned and looked at me, red-brown eyes locking with mine.

"I don't know what I would've done, either," he replied.

I was about to smile when I suddenly heard loud, _angry_ growling and snapping, and it took my brain all of point-two-five seconds to take the sound waves, translate them into brain-speak, and send out the realization of "Erasers!" Then I went into hyperdrive. Adrenaline burst into my system, making my muscles tense and sing with the power I felt, and my lungs started feeling as if they could take all the oxygen in the world. So what did I do? I gasped and took off at a flat-out run down the hall, all the while letting my brain run through all the potential situations. Situation one: the Director unleashed the executioners on the Flock and Max would be too late to save them. Situation two: the Director unleashed the executioners on the Flock _and_ Max and _I_ would be too late to save them. Situation three: the Director unleashed the executioners, and they were headed for me and Derek. Any and all of those were horrible. But guess what. It was _none of the above_. Oh, sure, the mongrels were out and about, clawing and scratching, but they were fighting Max and Max alone. I figured this out as I drew nearer and the growling grew louder, angrier; Derek was trying to keep up with me, but he was so exhausted that he kept lagging behind.

"Sounds like . . . like she's givin' 'em . . . all sorts of . . . of trouble," he panted.

I ground to a halt and wheeled about, my hands on his shoulders as I shoved him into the doorway of an abandoned lab.

"Look, you're not well!" I exclaimed. Oh, I wasn't about to let him die on me when we were so close to getting free . . . "Stay _right there_, don't move, don't even _breathe_! Well, okay, breathe; just don't do anything that'll make you die on me because I don't wanna lose you!"

Those five words were out before I could stop them. Oh well. Damage done. Derek stared at me and blinked before sighing and leaning his shoulder against the doorway.

"Okay," he sighed. "You're the doc . . ."

I grinned at him, knowing fully that he was thinking about my little healing power that I had but hadn't told them all about.

"I am now."

That said, I pecked him on the cheek before racing off and rounding the corner, swinging into another lab to find Max in life-or-death combat with a trio of Erasers. Joy. I knew from experience that there tended to be a dozen or so executioners hanging around at any given moment, with more created whenever some got killed (usually by me back in training—_cough_) or dropped dead due to their expiration dates. I was suddenly reminded of my own, and it felt as if ice water had just flowed down my spine before a fierce determination to live flooded me. So I charged into that lab, barely getting sliced in two by those razor-sharp claws the minute I crossed the threshold. Then one of those mongrels looked up, and I recognized him as one I'd fought in training. I'd blinded him in one eye, so he stared at me with one natural eye and one cybernetic replacement before a cold, cruel smirk manifested itself on his wolf-like snout.

"Hey, Dee-_lie­­_-luh!" he jeered. My fists clenched until the knuckles popped. "We were just discussin' if you were gonna be the main course or dessert!"

"Well, I warn you now," I growled, letting sarcasm coat my every word as I lifted my fists, getting into fight mode, "you're gonna need a whole helluva lotta gravy for me."

"Ooh, she's gotten feistier!" another one said, licking her chomps. "I like 'em like that!"

Max and I glanced at each other for a second and a half. I just smirked. These guys, however big and bad they might seem, would be quite easy to dispose of once I got their necks locked in the crook of my arm and twisted.

"Like hell!" Max cried, lunging for the nearest of the three mongrels.

I dove in immediately after, putting all my training to use. Hey, I wonder if Hollywood would be interested in making a movie about me. They could call it _Kung Fu Bird Kid_. Note sarcasm. I just kept punching and kicking, dodging claws and fangs, wishing I hadn't left that stupid gun back at that stupid lab . . . But then a set of claws dug into my shoulder and raked, barely missing my wing. Talk about a lucky break there. I bit back a scream and just wheeled around, grabbing that jerk by the neck and starting to twist. Folks, it _is_ possible to snap an Eraser's neck. You just gotta know how. He was howling and screaming, trying to claw his way free, but there was little more to him than flailing limbs with _really_ sharp claws on the end. I just kept twisting. Then I heard a _snap_ that vibrated into my hands, and I let him slump into a heap of fur on the floor. He stared at me in shock and horror as I climbed to my feet, fists clenched. I just glared. _Hard._

"Project Delilah _in your face_."

Then I stomped on his jaw with the heel of my sneaker; it cracked loudly, but he'd died about two seconds before. And you know what? I didn't feel the least bit guilty. It's impossible to feel guilt when you're defending yourself and your friends. I turned toward the remaining two Erasers, ready to chop them in halves with my bare hands. I was about to go for the female one when there were two sudden gunshots and she dropped like a sack of rocks. I wheeled around for a split-second, and who did I see in the doorway?

Fang.

_And_ Iggy!

And the rest of the Flock was right behind them!

Both Fang and Iggy had pistols in their hands, and that's when it dawned on me that Iggy had shot that Eraser just by listening to where she was while Fang had done so by sight. I grinned at my favorite blind pyromaniac even though he couldn't see it, and the one remaining Eraser—the one that had spoken to me first—ran a rough, dog-like tongue over sharpened yellow teeth, grinning wickedly.

"Hey, hey, look here!" he mocked. "You didn't tell me you were bringing friends to dinner, Dee-_lie_­-luh!"

"Funny!" I barked. "I could've remembered telling you I'd sent the invites!"

Max started moving in for the kill on that jerk, but I gave her this "Let me handle this one" look. She nodded and stepped back, herding the others out and congratulating them. There was much hugging all around, I noticed. Huh. I hadn't figured Max could be so darn sentimental. Then I turned my attention back to that Eraser. He liked his chomps again, drooling all over the floor. I narrowed my eyes and let my fists clench, ignoring the dull throbbing in my shoulder.

Then he lunged.

And I lunged right back. With a quick roundhouse to the jaw, I had him on the ground, spitting blood. So I leaped at him and straddled his barrel chest, grabbing a fistful of fur and using that as a handle with which I pounded the back of his head as hard as I could manage (which was pretty damn hard, I might add) into the linoleum and, ultimately, the concrete slab beneath.

"You're . . . just . . . a freak, bird girl!" he snarled, trying to wrench me off. Well, that was problematic for him since I had both his hands pinned down by crushing his wrists with my heels.

"Let me make this abundantly clear," I hissed at him, smacking his head harder into the floor. He was probably starting to see stars, and I was beginning to sweat like I'd just run a marathon. "_I_ am not the freak. _You_ are. And you are soon to be a very _dead_ freak. And you're not gonna mess with us _ever_ again."

I drove my elbow into his throat before leaping off, running for the doorway. Fang tossed me a gun, and I wheeled about just as that dog-boy was trying to get up. I squeezed the trigger, and he dropped. Blood started pooling on the ground around his head a few seconds later. The Gasman chuckled darkly behind me and rubbed his hands, eyeing the gun that'd killed the Eraser.

"Say hallo to my leetle friend," he cackled—in _perfect_ imitation of the movie line, I might add.

Okay, I couldn't help it. I lost it. I burst out laughing so hard that the pistol clattered from my hand and I sagged down the wall, holding my gut and laughing until the tears came. What can I say? I was coming down off an adrenaline high. But then I noticed that everyone else was staring at me like I'd gone slap crackers. Oops. I tried to calm down and got myself back under control. Gazzy just beamed at me all innocent-like as Iggy offered his hand to me. I grabbed it and pulled myself up to my feet, just barely avoiding falling into his arms for an awkward moment extraordinaire.

"So?" he asked as I backed away and started dusting Eraser fur off my jeans. "What about Derek? He okay?"

"If he stayed where I left him," I said, glancing back at the lab and the three dead Erasers on the bloodstained floor. "Let's go get him and blow this popsicle stand!"

So I took off down the hall, headed back toward where I'd left Derek, glancing over my shoulder and checking out the wound. It wasn't as deep as I'd thought, and the blood was beginning to clot on its own. It hurt like hell and burned like fire, but my wings were intact. I'd be able to fly, and that was all that mattered. Because, I mean, what good's a dramatic rescue op when the getaway turns iffy?

Anyway, I returned to where I'd left Derek and found him lying down in the lab's doorway. When I saw him like that, I almost freaked out before telling myself that, hey, I hadn't exactly told him he'd had to _stand_ there while I went off and played the hero. But it wasn't the fact that he was lying down that bothered me; it was the _way_ that he was lying there. It was as if he were in pain and the cold faux tile was the only way he would feel better.

"Feel up to getting out of here?" I asked him, crouching down at his side and brushing some hair from his eyes. "Maybe we can avoid a run-in with Madam Evil before blowing this place to hell."

"Do we really have to?" Derek asked, sighing. "I actually like it here. The floor, I mean."

Brows furrowed, I reached over and put the back of my hand against his cheek, then his forehead. What was wrong with him? Was he sick? Was this an evil side effect of that psychosis?

"You're really not feelin' good, are you . . ."

Then Nudge came over and crouched down beside me, leaning over Derek and looking concerned.

"Is he sick or somethin'?" she asked. "But he's gonna be okay, right?"

Derek sighed and slowly pushed himself to his feet, tottering slightly. Either he was getting sick on me or something had gone wacky with his inner ear and now his equilibrium was all outta whack. All right, maybe I _wouldn't_ try to avoid a run-in with Madam Evil just so I could punch her in the nose for harming Derek. Well, I'd punch her in the nose and then feed her to her own executioners. "See ya!" I'd say as I flew away. "Wouldn't wanna be ya!"

"Yeah," Derek said with a heavy exhale. "I'll be fine. Let's just go so we can blow this place sky-high."

We were planning to drop another bomb from "orbit," if you will, and blow the School up _that_ was. I mean, we'd already put a dent in the west quadrant. Then, as the plan went, we'd come back down and put a remote-detonation charge somewhere critical and blow the place higher. Fun, no?

Anyway, I offered Derek my arm, telling him to lean on me. He did so, and willingly, putting most of his weight against me. I countered his weight by leaning into him, and that way, I was able to support him. The whole time, I noticed that Iggy's brows were furrowed as if he'd just heard something. Max and I looked over at each other before looking at him.

"Ig?" we asked simultaneously. He held up a hand.

"Shh. Thought I heard something."

It was at that moment that I heard howling and growling coming from another corridor. Then Angel sounded the alarm and cried "Erasers!" before grabbing Max's arm and turning to race away. We _all_ started running as fast as we could as the howling got louder, but I was starting to fall behind because of Derek. Then Fang doubled back and scooped Derek up and pretty much over his shoulder, leaving me free to pour on the speed.

The growling was louder. Apparently the rest of the executioners had been called out—and they weren't all that far behind us. I was able to hear their boots in the corridor, and once when I glanced back over my shoulder, I swore I could see their grizzled maws gaining on me. But we were almost to the door, and I couldn't see the Erasers anymore. We just kept running until we were all wheezing and trying to suck every last ounce of oxygen out of the air. We were almost to the door, almost there . . . just had to get out and then we'd all touch the sky . . . but then there was a gunshot and a stab of hot pain in my thigh, and then my leg buckled beneath me. I hissed in a breath and instinctively reached down to clutch my thigh. When I pulled my hand back, it came away red. Those mongrels had shot me! And, oh, they'd done a _damn_ good job . . . I could barely walk, much less run. But I kept going, working my way down the hall in an awkward combination of staggering and shuffling. Max and Nudge stopped and turned before racing back toward me to help me. The growling was louder still, and I just waved them away.

"Go!" I barked, sweat beading on my forehead. Augh, it _hurt_ . . . "Get out of here! Dammit, what good's it gonna do Derek if we're all caught?!"

"But you're _hurt_, Del!" Nudge exclaimed, trying to get me to put some of my weight on her. I shook my head.

"Derek's more important right now! Get him _out_ of here! Get him somewhere safe, let him recover! I'll meet up with you later!"

"You're not going all heroic on me again, are you?" Max asked, eyebrow raised. I scoffed.

"Please. If my leg weren't bleeding all over the floor, I'd be running just the same as you. Now _go_, dammit, before we all become Eraser bait!"

The two of them took off at a flat-out run toward the door, rounded a corner, and I never saw them again. I was trying to keep up, but my leg wouldn't let me. I rounded that same corner a minute or so later, trying to put some distance between me and the gaining Erasers, forcing myself to break into a jog to get out the door. I saw the others; they were by the door, watching for me, almost waiting. I kept waving them to just go ahead and _go_; Max finally herded them out, and I stumbled, falling to my knees, two seconds before she herself vanished. I tried to get up but found myself staring at boots like only an Eraser would wear. I looked up . . . and up . . . and there they were. All nine remaining executioners were all around me, licking their chomps, eyeing me greedily. I clutched my leg and groaned to myself, both out of pain and a sense of "Damn, that was stupid."

Then I heard a voice bark out "Stand down!" The Erasers parted, four on my right, four on my left, one behind me. I turned, hissing in a breath at having to put pressure on my wounded leg, and felt all the color drain from my face as I saw who was walking down the hall. I barely stifled a groan as I realized what was about to happen to me now that I'd gotten myself captured. Then I saw the look on _her_ face. Great. Things were worse than I'd thought. I fought off the urge to curl up in a ball and clutch my leg, instead forcing myself to my feet and putting almost all of my weight on my good leg. Then the Director came to a halt before me, eyes narrowed in anger, hands akimbo, brows furrowed at me. I put on my best scowl. She just _glared_ at me, making shivers run down my spine.

"Now, Delilah," she said, all ice, "do you understand why I kept you on such a short leash, why everything was orchestrated to keep you under control?"

"Is this the part where I make my dramatically heroic speech?" I snorted, clutching my leg so hard that my hand was warm and sticky. I almost thought I could feel the bullet in there. "All right. You'll never take me, vile fiend! You _cannot_, _will not_ whisk me away to your labyrinth of evil! I'll find some way to stop you!"

Beneath the sarcasm was a grain of truth: I _would_ find some way to get free and stop her. But it probably wouldn't be right now. Her eyes narrowed even more as she folded her arms and glowered at me.

"You were _perfect_," she hissed. "Then you _failed_ me. I have no patience for failures, Delilah—not even you. I had . . . plans . . . for when the Flock was returned to me, but since you failed your assignment, I suppose you will have to take their fate."

I scowled at her; what a bitch! But beneath that façade of cold determination, of all-around "Del-ness," I was terrified. I was shaking. I was afraid, I was in pain, I wanted the others to come back and get me . . . But I never let any of this show. The Director just waved her hand, and the Erasers dragged me away. I tried to get myself calmed down because I could see they weren't taking me to the exercise yard to rip me to shreds; they were hauling me off to what had been my room. But when they threw me inside, I saw it'd been "renovated." The window had been blocked out, so there was no light. There was no bed—only a pillow and a blanket on the floor. The high-def TV was gone, but at least the bathroom was still there. The only difference there was that the door had been taken off its hinges. Oh, and the room's main door was replaced with a steel one that had several heavy-duty electronic locks. _And_ there was a security cam in each of the room's four corners. They'd turned this place into a prison, and I curled up in a corner, grabbing at the blanket and wrapping it around my leg to staunch the bleeding. Then I looked around. It was so . . . so _cold_ here. It was like being at the very heart of what Itex was, seeing just what it was that they were made of. I could see what was going to happen to me. They were going to torture me for the fun of it, maybe even kill me. Then I did it. I gave in to the fear, to the terror, to the longing for my Bible so I could read a comforting story. I let the numbing fear consume me, swallow me whole. Then I did something I'd only recently begun doing as a way to express my fright and pain: I burst into miserable tears there in my cold little corner in my cell and just _sobbed_.


	26. 25: Hell on Earth

**A/N:** Derek to _JaxSolo_, Del to me, everybody else to James Patterson. The plot thickens. OH NOES!

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-five – Hell on Earth**

Y'know, once upon a time, I was a very special person. I was a VIBK—Very Important Bird Kid. But now . . . now I was little more than a worthless prisoner. You know how I figured this out? I figured it out when over two hours passed before somebody came to get the bullet out of my leg. Eventually, someone—a regular ol' scientist—came with a pair of forceps and a roll of bandages. He just . . . stuck the forceps into my leg and yanked the bullet out, no pain meds, no antiseptics, nothing. I expect that he was told to _make_ me suffer, and it worked. I nearly shrieked, it hurt so bad. But I would _never_ give the Director the satisfaction of knowing that she'd made me scream in pain. So I just gritted my teeth and clenched my jaw, squeezing my eyes shut until it was over. Then that scientist bandaged my leg (again, no antiseptics, and no stitches, the jerk!) before heading for the door. I forced myself up and limped over to him, and when I got to him, I hauled off and punched him in the face. His face contorted in shock, then in pain as blood gushed from his nose and he realized I'd broken it, then in anger. I just glared at him.

"I'm still human," I hissed. "You treat me like it."

"You hab failed duh Director," he grumbled, clenching his nose and making his voice sound all stuffy. "For dat, you mus' die."

Well, well, if _that_ didn't sound like something out of a B-horror movie. But then it dawned on me that maybe, just _maybe_, the genetic mutants created here weren't the only ones that were brainwashed. Maybe the Director's little minions were, too. Maybe that's how she kept such control over them. I tried to keep my face ice-cold, though, as I just glared at him.

"Yeah, well, you just send her this way. I'll be waiting."

Yeah. I would. I'd show her what I thought of her. I'd stand up to her because there was probably no one else that would—or, if they would, then maybe they couldn't. So _I_ would. I'd show her just how great a fighter she'd bred me to be. All those miserable hours in training, all those days of trying to ignore the mocking taunts of "Hey, Dee-_lie­_-luh, Director's pet!", all those countless tests, all that insufferable propaganda sprinkled through _my_ favorite movies . . . Well, the Director would get hers. She'd get it direct from me. I wouldn't even charge her for the pounding. This one I'd do for free. The only thing I'd want in return would be the overwhelming feeling of satisfaction I'd get when I'd stand over her, staring down, and she'd be staring up at me, neck broken, shock written all over her smarmy face. And then she'd gasp her pathetic last, and I would be avenged. I'd get my revenge for what she'd done to me, to Derek, to Iggy, to Max and all the others . . .

So cheered was I by these thoughts that I just smiled at the scientist. He stared at me before turning and shuffling off to tend to his broken nose. Only after he left and the door sealed shut before locking did I move from that spot. I limped back to my corner and settled down as comfortably as I could manage for having just had a bullet yanked out of my thigh. Ow. Sighing thinly, I checked out my shoulder. It wasn't bleeding anymore, thank goodness, but it was throbbing kind of dull-like and I could feel that where I'd been clawed was starting to pucker. I imagined it was pink and looking a little inflamed but didn't look _that_ close because I wasn't feeling like worrying over an infection. Besides, I'd been shot _twice_ in my life; also, this was the second time an Eraser had clawed me within . . . what, a week? Two? No big, right? I figured I'd probably get beat up a little more when the Director came to throw me to the wolves, so to speak, so I started steeling myself if that happened—and I say "if" because you never know; I might have a great day, kick all their butts, and fly away to find the others. Wouldn't _that_ be nice? Kill off the Erasers, steal one of their guns, shoot the Director, then fly off to eternal freedom. Good plan, right? I thought so. And I was so comforted by the thought that I'd win and leave in one piece that I turned toward the cam in my "cell" and flicked the finger and a cocky smirk at whoever was watching. I wanted all those Itex goons to know that I wasn't gonna take _any_ crap from them. I never had, and I certainly never _would_.

So I sat there for about thirty minutes, sometimes staring at the wall, sometimes getting up and walking around to keep blood flowing to my legs. Every once in a while I let my wings extend fully so I could shake out the kinks in them; after all, I didn't want cold flight muscles in case I had to take off suddenly. Ever tried to fly without a warm-up beforehand? Oh . . . that's right. Y'all don't have wings. Sorry. Ahem.

As I was making a circuit of the cell, stretching my legs and fluttering my precious wings, hands jammed in my pockets, the electronic lock system on the door beeped. I turned to see a light on my side of the door turn green, then it hissed open, and you just guess who walked inside and shut the door behind her. As usual, she was clad in a crisp pantsuit and pumps, hair done up in a tight bun, arms folded firmly, dark eyes narrowed and scowling at me. Nope, absolutely _nothing_ was out of the ordinary here. Note sarcasm. I swear, someday I'm gonna find a tee-shirt that says something like "I majored in sarcasm" or "Sarcasm: just one of my many talents." Oh yeah.

"Delilah," the Director said icily, leveling me with one of those glares that meant I was in _much_ trouble. "I hear you hit one of my employees."

"No, I punched the living _crap_ out of him," I retorted, not even pausing as I kept circling the room, wings loose against my back. "If I'd _hit_ him, he would've had a red spot on his cheek from getting an open-palm smack. As I recall, he was bleeding buckets from a broken nose. Isn't it funny how head wounds always bleed a lot? I always thought it was. I mean, why should they bleed anymore than, say, arm wounds? 'Cause—"

"Silence!" she barked, obviously irritated.

I was careful to only smirk to myself when I turned a corner of my circuit and she couldn't see me. Apparently she didn't like it when people went Nudge-y on her. But did I look like I cared? Not one miserable iota, nope! Thank God I'd suffered under Nudge's constant rambling; that skill now helped me to annoy the blooming daylights out of the Director. Aww, but wasn't I so very _special_? I just crossed back to my corner and sat down, cross-legged, careful not to show _any_ sign whatsoever that my leg was bothering me.

"So, Director," I said, smiling cordially and folding my hands. "Did you come for something specific or just a civil chat?"

By "something specific," I meant "Are we going to the torture chamber now?" And don't be surprised that I was making light of the situation; I wouldn't give her the satisfaction of seeing me break. Her frustration at my Nudge-isms faded as she smiled faintly.

"A civil chat," she replied, surprising me and therefore making me hide that emotion. "I wanted to discuss what happened to you."

"_Nothing_ happened to me," I replied as absolutely calmly as I could manage, and that was getting difficult. "I had my eyes opened."

"I think you suffered from a slight programming glitch," the Director replied, making me positively fume. She absolutely would _not_ accept that I'd discovered I was indeed human and that I was _not_ some damned AI! "But we can rebuild you."

"'We have the technology,' right?" I asked as positively sarcastically as I could. "That's how it goes, isn't it? Something about 'better, stronger, faster'?"

That got on the Director's nerves. She didn't _like_ that I was so sarcastic, so always ready with a witticism or some zinger that was positively _brilliant_. She didn't _like_ that I was _human_. Well, tough. I didn't like that she was trying to make me an unfeeling, insensitive robot with no thoughts but the ones Itex programmed into me and no emotions whatsoever. A second generation of Omega—but with wings. I'd be the perfect weapon for Itex if I didn't have these "glitches." The Director frowned at me.

"There's no need to be so insolent."

"Insolent?!" I hissed, starting to lose control. I would not break down, though; I would _not_! I wouldn't give her the satisfaction of seeing me crack! Never! "Ohh, Director. Your IQ is that of a brick, 'ma'am.' This isn't insolence. This is me trying to stay _alive_."

"But you have nothing to fight or fear," she countered. "Once you are rebuilt, you'll be so much better than you are now, and you'll be much happier that way."

That did it. The minute she said that, something inside me just snapped. I lost it, and I didn't care that I was doing the very thing I swore I wouldn't. I leaped up and stormed for her, stopping just shy of snapping her neck. I glared at her, thrusting my index finger into her face.

"You have _no_ idea what would make me happy, bitch!" I snarled. "I don't care _what_ the hell your biology says; you aren't human because you have no heart! You _don't_ know what makes me happy; you _don't_ understand me _at all_; you don't even _care_ that I'm human and I have emotions and feelings just like the rest of the world! All you care about is your perverted genetic 'experiments' and pleasing your damned stockholders! And for the record, you're not in this for me; you're in this to take over the world! Oh, and another thing, Director: I _never_ want to be remade! You don't control me anymore!"

Her dark eyes flashed once with rage. Then she backhanded me.

You know how, in some movies, when the heroine gets backhanded by the villain, she falls back against the wall of her prison cell, eyes wide and teary, hand pressed to her bleeding mouth as she stares at her arch-nemesis in shock and pain? Well, I ain't a stereotypical heroine. When the Director struck me, I flinched, but I didn't fall. I didn't even take a step back. Instead I grabbed her arm and yanked it toward me, twisting it before slamming my elbow into hers with a power that was generated by all the anger and hate I held for her. This only took a couple seconds to do, and the moment I rammed my elbow into hers, there was a loud _snap_, and she recoiled, face contorting in pain as she clutched her broken arm to her stomach. I just stood there, arms folded and my weight balanced on one hip, as she tried to recover, tried to get herself composed. Finally, she glared up at me, eyes hateful.

"I don't know why I bother with you," she hissed out, breathing hard from the pain of her snapped arm. "You don't deserve _anything_ I've ever tried to do for you!"

"You _never_ did _anything_ for me, Director," I growled, getting myself to break her _other_ arm. "_Never._ And I know you're gonna go get your werewolf friends. Well, you tell them Del's waiting and that she's going to enjoy every minute of their complete and total annihilation."

The Director leveled me with a nasty glare which I reciprocated. She was still struggling to look less as if the pain in her arm were about to make her pass out.

"I hope they slit your throat, Delilah," she snarled. "You have been _far_ too much trouble and are of no further use to me."

"Yeah?" I replied. "That's so sweet of you to say. Here's my sweetness of the day: _Go to hell!_"

Then I flipped her the finger, half-expecting her to reach over and snapped it off. She just scowled at me before storming off. The next second, the door slammed shut and I was left alone again in relative darkness. But I felt good. I'd broken the Director's arm, cussed her out, _and_ flipped her the bird. Hey, irony, right? Bird kid tossing—oh, right. Old joke. Sorry.

So I returned to my corner. And I sat there. And sat there. And _sat there_. I'd expected the Director to send the Erasers for me right away since I'd been so outright "insolent." Well, nothing happened, and I was starting to lose my nerve. My muscles were getting stiff and cold again, so I kept walking around my cell. As the hours dragged by, I began to feel as if I were losing my resolve, so I had to keep thinking of Iggy and Derek to remind myself _why_ I was here and _why_ I was doing this. So I paced up and down, limping slightly because of my now-bad leg, careful not to move my scarred arm too hard for fear of wounding it worse. I swear, I was rubbing holes in that linoleum, and I didn't sleep a wink because I would _not_ let myself be caught unawares by those werewolves. Once or twice I went to the door and pressed my ear to it but couldn't hear a thing that might tell me what was happening. Chances were, the Director had scampered off to the ER to get her arm set and that I'd be left in my cell until her return. It was either that or she was planning on leaving me in there to rot. Maybe she'd even gradually cut back my food supply until I starved to death. Then again, I hadn't even seen any food coming my way, so apparently the Director was planning on skipping the step of slowly cutting back until I starved.

I paced that cell for hours, and when I finally sat down to rest my aching leg, I didn't get up again. The next thing I knew, I was slowly sitting up, looking around blearily and feeling groggy, and that's when it dawned on me that I'd sat down, fallen over, and gone to sleep. I didn't know what time it was or even what _day_ it was, but I assumed it was sometime the next day. In a way, I wanted to kick myself for dozing off, but my body was sighing "Oh, _thank_ you, Del, for letting me rest for a while! I needed that!" Yeah, okay. Maybe it'd been a good thing I'd fallen asleep. I probably needed the energy boost, _especially_ if I were going to soon be fighting. And, knowing how much trouble I was in for, I probably would be. _Sigh._

It was another couple hours before I thought I heard footsteps outside the door, and I slowly stood, taking it easy on my leg. Not thirty seconds later, the door hissed open, and in strode the Director, flanked by two un-morphed but still armed and deadly Eraser executioners. Even though they looked nothing like werewolves yet, I could see the bloodlust gleaming in their eyes. I tried to ignore it, pretended I didn't see it, but it was still there. It was there in their eyes, in the Director's eyes, in the Director's stance as she cradled her arm—which was in a cast and sling, I noticed. I also noticed that it hadn't been signed with warm wishes from her colleagues. Guess who's much-loved, eh? But I knew what they'd come for. I knew even before the Director spoke to me.

"And now, Delilah," she said, all ice, "I am going to show you how I deal with traitors."

"Traitor," hmm? Well, I've gotta admit, I always liked the way that sounds in French: "_Traître__!_" It just has such nice-sounding _R_'s in it that it sounds kind of like choking, but elegant, in a way. Ahem. I raised a brow and folded my arms, taking up my usual cocky stance.

"Oh, so it's traitor now, is it? I no longer get the option to be 'rebuilt'?"

She didn't answer; she just scowled at me. I didn't care. Even though my stomach was turning to jelly, I forced myself to remain standing tall and proud, even as the Erasers came in and grabbed me by the arms, half-shoving and half-dragging me out into the hall. I just kept my shoulders squared back and my head held high as they led me away even though my stomach was flopping like a beached fish and I knew what was probably about to happen to me. I had no doubts that they were going to take me out to the exercise yard and that I'd have to fight my way through the rest of the Eraser execution squad. Well, I would. I just _would_. There were no two ways about this; I'd fight and I'd _win_.

As we trailed through the corridors, the Director in the lead with me following, those two guards flanking me, I noticed that several scientists poked their heads out of their labs to watch me pass. Their expressions varied from outright arrogance ("Ha, ha, Subject Twenty-one is getting _her_ just deserts!") to confusion to fear and even to what looked like mild pity. I didn't make eye contact. I _wouldn't_ make eye contact if I could help it. But then I saw Batchelder standing at the end of the corridor. My head jerked up completely against my will when I spotted him there, and our eyes met. He looked . . . sorry. Sorry that I'd gotten in this mess, sorry that he couldn't save me, I dunno. Just . . . _sorry_. He was wearing one of the white lab coats everybody customarily wore around that hellhole (and probably every other lab on the planet), which made me tell myself that he wasn't my friend, that he was still one of _them_, but the apologetic look to his face made me think twice. Remember how I've always been wary of him, always shied away, never given him the time of day? Well, when his gaze locked onto me and I was forced to meet it, I don't know what overcame me. I just looked away, glancing down at the floor as if that'd make him go away and stop looking at me—looking _through_ me. The Director shot him a smug, "I've won and you've lost" look, making me grind my teeth in annoyance. But I didn't look at Batchelder again. I just walked on, an Eraser on either side, drawing ever closer to the yard.


	27. 26: Learning My Lesson

**A/N:** Derek to_ JaxSolo_, Del to me, everybody else to James Patterson. Del is going to murder me for this chapter.

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**Chapter Twenty-six – Learning My Lesson**

The yard was the same as it always was: cold, dreary, heartless. The cement walls were as foreboding as ever, and the razor wire atop them would've certainly dissuaded me from leaping over to the other side on my own power. But razor wire isn't a threat to me because of my wings. I probably could've taken a running start and leaped into the sky, unfurling my wings, but I knew the Erasers flanking me were armed and I didn't want my escape to freedom to be cut short by a bullet to the back. That would just _suck_, y'know? _Sigh._

It'd be really ironic if the sky were bright and blue with little fluffy white clouds dotting it, but such was not the case. On the contrary, it was overcast and gray, with big black clouds off in the distance and low echoes of thunder farther away. In a way, it was fitting, because not only was the situation tumultuous, but my mind was churning like a storm-tossed sea. How many Erasers would they throw at me? How fast? Would I get a chance to fight back? How would I have to do it? Multiple roundhouses to all their necks? What would happen if I killed them all? Would I die then? Or would the Director make them kill me the minute they saw me? Would I even fight Erasers? Would the guards just shoot me the minute I walked into the yard? So many questions . . . ! But I didn't have any time to think about it anymore because we entered the yard, and the Director paused at the entrance. The Eraser guards just shoved me forward with the business ends of their semi-automatics, and I tripped and nearly fell. But I caught myself before I went down and swore at them. They just gave me infuriating smiles. Then the Director gave me another one as I passed, and I nearly broke her _other_ arm out of sheer hatred.

But then I was in the yard, surrounded by walls and razor wire, and the two guards that'd been flanking me were now on either side of the Director. She was just watching me calmly, smugly, as if she knew something I didn't. I just flashed a dirty look at her and stormed out to the middle of the yard, rolling my shoulders back to loosen them and clenching my fists. At one point in my life as a VIBK, I'd gotten to listen to a wide assortment of music that, believe it or not, didn't have subliminal programming in it. So I pulled a song out of my brain and started humming it under my breath, bouncing once or twice on the balls of my feet to get myself ready for the upcoming battle. Let's face it: even though Black Sabbath is, compared to me, ancient, it manages to pump me up. Well, that, and ACDC. Ahem.

It wasn't long later that I heard _them_. Angry howling came echoing from the other side of the yard, making me shudder before I tried to block it out with the song in my head. I just narrowed my eyes, checked to make sure I could remember every fighting skill I'd ever been taught, and then I started counting down from thirty. By the time I hit _one_, I saw the execution squad, fully morphed, come bounding out of their confines, looking ready to positively rip me to shreds, and I knew that they'd probably been told to, too. I just waited them out, not wanting to waste all my energy yet. Then, when they were not all that far from me and starting to take their first swings at me, I unfurled my wings and shot skyward like a rocket, wishing I had an iPod or _something_ so that my skull could be rattled by the real version of my song.

I should've kept going, I think. I should've gotten sky-high and kept right on going, but I wanted to kick these guys' wolf backsides as hard as I knew how first. I wanted to show the Director up and make her ever so ashamed she'd tried to destroy me by siccing her precious little werewolves on me. So I tucked in my wings and dove for them, rocketing toward them. My sneakers came in contact with the first Eraser jaw I could reach, and I kicked out from my airborne perch. There was a _crack_ that meant I'd knocked something loose even if I hadn't broken that jerk's jaw, and the way the Eraser howled told me that whatever I'd done had _hurt_.

"Ooh, I'm sorry!" I mocked, soaring higher. "Did that hurt?"

"You'll pay, bird girl!" he screeched at me, punching himself in the other side of the face to pop his jaw back in place. I smirked.

"Wrong! Vengeance might be the Lord's, but He's a little busy today, so I'm standing in!"

And I landed. The minute I did, they all lunged for me, growling, claws raking, fangs snapping. I fought back, kicking on in the gut and punching another in the throat. Yeah, Erasers may be tough, but they absolutely can't handle getting punched in the throat. That one went staggering back, trying to gasp out curses and threats, but he couldn't breathe. I would've _loved_ to have punched him again, figuring that a second blow would kill him, but I got swept up in fighting the others. I was fighting by pure impulse, not even truly aware of what I was doing other than the fact that I felt myself get hit a couple of times and that I could hear them all howling and snapping at me, trying to rip out my lungs via my throat. I just kept fighting, totally instinctively, until time seemed to grind to a halt at one horrible moment. Everything went almost on slow-motion as hot, searing pain raced through my right wing and shoulder, knocking my breath out of me and forcing me to my knees. In an instant I realized what had happened, even before I felt hot blood running down my back. My wing . . . they tore my wing . . . ! _The bloody bastards tore my wing!_ I nearly passed out from the pain as I realized three things. One: they were _laughing_ at me. Two: they'd obviously been ordered to do this to me to keep me from flying away. Three: now I knew how Derek had felt. I staggered to my feet, trying to get up, trying to maybe force my wing to work so I could try to get away . . . but out of nowhere came a hard blow to my face, knocking me sideways and into the arms of another Eraser, who took that opportunity to rake my left cheek with his awful claws. I was just too hazy to fight back, and I realized that this was like . . . like that dream I'd had back in San Francisco.

A couple of times, I tried to land some good punches on them, but every time I tried to lunge forward, either pain shot up and down my back and shoulder or those mongrels tripped me, making me fall on my face. That was usually followed by howling laughter and several kicks in the side by leather boot-clad Eraser feet. I started coughing blood after a while, and once when I made another failed attempt to punch those creeps, I found myself lying in a mess of bloody golden feathers. _My_ feathers. They'd been ripped from my wing, leaving naked splotches that I felt would've made Derek cringe. And now my wing wasn't gold anymore. It was blood red.

I was starting to wish I could just pass out and not feel this pain anymore, but then I heard a shrill whistle. The next instant, two Erasers grabbed me, each one clutching one of my arms, and they dragged me back toward the School proper. I tried to walk on my own, but one of them had ripped away the bandage around my leg and punched me in my healing bullet wound. And I'd thought getting shot during Plan Martyrdom had been painful . . . Whereas I'd walked out of the School with my head held high and Black Sabbath roaring in my brain, now I was being dragged back inside, bloody, bruised, and barely able to stand up, much less pick my head up. Project Delilah now stood forcibly humbled, but there was _no_ way I would surrender. Not even when I was dead would I surrender! Besides, if I died, I'd win, because they'd lose their torture target practice. For once, death didn't seem scary.

One of the Erasers gave me a hard shove forward, and I fell hard onto my knees. My kneecaps didn't shatter, but pain radiated up through my legs from them, and I hissed in a breath. I was starting to get hazy again, and it felt as if I'd just pass out in a heap right there. I also neither noticed nor cared that I was dripping blood onto the School's pristine white tiles. Ow . . . I silently prayed for deliverance from this hellhole before being interrupted by an Eraser prodding me in the shoulder. I nearly turned to give him my best dirty look which, well, might've lost some of its impact given the situation, but I heard light, clicking footsteps rapidly approaching. I didn't have to look up to know that it was the Director. She stopped not six inches from me. I still didn't look up; everything hurt too much; my body was screaming too loudly from all the wounds and pain. Then one of the Erasers grabbed a fistful of my hair and yanked back, jerking my head upward. I clenched my eyes shut in pain, trying not to swear, but I eventually had to meet gazes with the Director even though one eye—the one that had been punched—wasn't opening all the way due to a massive bruise. The Director just scowled at me, her good arm folded under the one in the cast.

"You were our greatest project," she said to me, all ice—as usual. "You were going to rid us of those _failures_ once and for all. Instead, you had to become one of them. You had to _join_ them. You _failed_ me, Delilah."

"Had to," I forced out, trying to keep my voice as tough-sounding as it always did. "What you were doin' . . . was wrong."

"Only because you let yourself be indoctrinated by Batchelder and his do-gooder personality," she retorted, spitting out Batchelder's name with disgust.

Almost as if on cue, I saw Batchelder standing about twenty feet behind the Director, gazing at me. This time, I looked wearily up at him and saw anguish contort his face. That's when I remembered what he'd said to me when I'd come back after Plan Martyrdom: "If no one else ever loves you, Del, I do." That was when I realized that . . . he _did_. And he'd probably be over here fighting off the Erasers and carrying me away somewhere safe if he could. But he was forced to stand there and just watch me, watch how my wing was bleeding badly, how my eye was swelling, how I had just been downright _tortured_ . . . I wanted to cry for help to him, but my throat was too dry and I felt too weak. I just looked back at him, though, and mouthed one word: _Jeb._ He almost started and took a couple quick steps forward toward me, but the Erasers noticed and growled at him, as if all they needed to slaughter him was an affirmative from the Director. The Director glanced over her shoulder at him and frowned before turning back to me. My eyes were starting to flutter shut in my attempt to escape all this by passing out, but the Eraser gripping my hair just gave me a hard shake. The Director scowled at me and leaned down, her face not three inches from mine.

"You failed me, Delilah," she hissed. "After all the training you had, all the conditioning, you still managed to break away and fail me."

"Tha's the funny thing about bein' ninety-seven percent human," I replied tiredly. "There's this lil' longing for freedom. Dunno why you gotta do _this_, though . . . Could 'a just waited for my date to kick in . . ."

In all truthfulness, she could have. She could've just let me life my life until I turned twenty-one, and she could've rested easily in knowing that I'd just drop dead and then she'd never have to worry about me anymore. But she just smiled coldly, not even genuinely, and what she said next completely floored me.

"You don't have one."

I stared at her as those four words sank in and I took the time to ponder them. I . . . _didn't_ have an expiration . . . ? All I'd feared . . . and I didn't have one . . . ? She'd . . . she'd _lied_? She'd told me I had one just to make me do this job? I stared numbly at her. She smirked triumphantly at me.

"You were going to be our prize," she said. "You were going to be a weapon. Reusable. Unquestioning. Creative. Intelligent. You were going to be everything that even the most advanced missile cannot be. We couldn't create you, spend all that money and research time, only to allow you to die after a mere few years. You were created to be _perfect_, Delilah . . . absolutely _perfect_. Never again would there be a need for weapons caches that need to be constantly refilled. There would be just you, able to adapt to any battlefield on any continent."

"An' so what were you gonna do with me?" I mumbled, trying to keep it together even though I was in pain, I was shocked, and everything was just freaking OW . . . "Sell me to the highest bidder?"

"Lend you," came the Director's reply. "We were going to lend you to whoever needed you. That's what _this_ was for."

At that, she reached over and slowly tugged down my shirt and lightly traced a finger over the tattoo across my chest. I shuddered but didn't have the strength to reach up and smack her hand away. Out of my peripheral vision, I could see the Eraser executioners slowly licking their chomps, as if they were about to haul me back to the yard for more "fun." The Director fingered my tattoo for a while before stepping back, staring at me.

"This, Delilah, is your punishment for betraying me. You are now damaged merchandise; I have no further use for you. Take her away."

The Erasers released my hair and again grabbed my arms, hauling me up and back toward the yard. That's when panic set in. I started struggling, trying to get free, trying to use every last drop of energy to escape . . . ! I could the Director smirking and me and Batchelder running for me—to get me back, I'd guess—and I lost it. I started sobbing, howling almost inhumanly as the Erasers kept dragging me back.

"_BATCHELDER!!_" I screamed, making myself hoarse. "Batchelder, _help_!! Don't let them take me! I don't wanna die! _JEB! _JEB, HELP ME!! _PLEASE!_"

Then we were back at the yard, and the door slammed shut, sealing me off from my last chance at escaping. I was still sobbing miserably, begging for help, but one of the Erasers just backhanded me and barked "Shut up!" at me. I tried to grab at the door and get back inside, but another one of them balled his fist and rammed it into my side. Something went _snap_, I gasped, and black spots danced in front of my eyes as I went to my knees again. Then came the boots. They kept kicking me, punching me, spitting on me, and I couldn't stop them. I kept trying to get up but couldn't. All that blood loss was getting to me, and I just couldn't fight back. Even Black Sabbath had faded from my mind. It was all I could do to stay conscious, and it was getting ever so harder to do that. Eventually, I wound up lying on the side with the cracked rib, breathing hard, bleeding from almost everywhere, just wishing this would end. Then one Eraser got over me and grabbed me by the neck, smacking my hair out of the way as the others held me down. I felt his fangs brush my neck and knew what was about to happen. I clenched my eyes shut, shaking with sobs, readying myself to die. At that point, I didn't care if I would die. By then, I _wanted_ to because it'd all be over. I'd be finally free, and this wouldn't hurt anymore. I'd go up to heaven, where everyone would be happy and good to me, and I'd go see God the minute I got past the pearly gates. I'd go and tell Him I was happy to be there because I felt genuinely safe. Once when I opened my eyes for a moment, I almost thought I saw Jesus standing off a ways holding out His hand and telling me to come on and go with Him, but I couldn't get up and go. I just cried at that Eraser got himself ready to take a chunk out of my neck, and I shut my eyes again, just wanting this to be over.

Just as the Eraser started to move in for the kill, there was an earth-shaking explosion from somewhere else in the compound. Instantly, alarms started blaring all around the School, and in a heartbeat, the Erasers got up and bolted away, the one that was about to kill me barking orders. They just left me there in a heap, and though I tried to get up, I couldn't. I couldn't even lift my head. But I _could_ lift my eyes, and I looked up to the sky to beg God to help me, and that's when I saw seven dark silhouettes outlined against the overcast sky. I realized what was happening. They'd come back. My friends had come back for me! They hadn't forgotten. I just smiled faintly at the sky and mouthed "Thank You." Then everything went black.


	28. 27: Escape

**A/N:** Derek to _JaxSolo_, Del to me, everybody else to James Patterson. Sorry for the long wait for an update. I got confused as to what I wanted to do for the ending.

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**Chapter Twenty-seven – Escape **

I felt as if I'd had an all-night drinking binge on Rip van Winkle's ale because it seemed as if maybe I'd slept twenty years and didn't know it was that long. I say that because it felt as if I were out for a long, _long_ time even though I knew, deep down, that it'd probably only been a few minutes. And when I started coming around, the first thing I felt was someone tightly holding me. Even before I opened my eyes, I recognized three things: one, I was still in massive pain. Two, I was still lying in the School's exercise yard. Three, I was familiar with the arms, ropy with hard muscle, that were holding me. It was Derek; there was _no_ doubt in my mind that he was the one tightly holding me. I gingerly cracked open the eye that hadn't swollen shut and peered hazily up at him; he was watching me with shock and horror. Yeah, I figured I looked pretty bad. Did I ever tell you just how nasty Eraser claws can be? Yeah. Really bad.

I tried to croak out a "Hello" when he realized I was awake, but I couldn't even manage that. Everything hurt all over, and I found that I couldn't feel my wing anymore . . . that it was like useless, dead weight hanging limply from my shoulder. As far as I could tell, it was probably half disconnected, and the thought that I might—_might_, mind!—have to have it amputated nigh drove me insane. I almost started hyperventilating, but two things happened: blood dribbled from my nose, causing me to nearly gag, and I saw fear and worry in Derek's red-brown eyes. He exhaled heavily and gave me as gentle a squeeze as he could possibly manage.

"Del, you fool girl . . ."

Then he kissed me. Hard. I think he was just grateful I was still breathing! I wanted so badly to kiss him back, to tell him how glad I was that he and the others had come back for me, but I couldn't. I was just bad off and couldn't even lift my arm to touch his cheek. But he touched mine, fingers ever so lightly feeling where that one Eraser had raked the left side of my face. Guess what'd be scarring. _Sigh._ But then he pulled back, gazing at me with concern and . . . love? Wait, what? Okay, let's face it: I was not having a very good day. I'd been tortured, nearly killed, now it seemed as if Derek—who had gotten his emotions back, what, yesterday?—loved me even though he didn't say a word. It was just . . . in his eyes, somehow. (Look, don't ask; I barely understand my own feelings, remember?)

But then I must've inhaled wrong because I started coughing and almost started choking. Derek gently eased me into something of a sitting position as I coughed and gagged, and as I spit blood out onto the grass, he reached over to clap me on the back. But he suddenly paused right before whacking me down where the center of my right lung would be, and I knew he'd just seen the tattered mess that, once upon a time, was my beautiful golden wing. He gasped in horror, and I wanted to cry. No, it did _not_ make me feel better to know that he'd been through this. No, I did _not_ want to commiserate and share recovery stories. What I _wanted_ was to go somewhere safe and heal after giving the Director _everything_ she had coming! I didn't even want Derek to feel sorry for me. Hot tears stung my eyes as he gingerly touched my wing and I realized I didn't even feel it. But no, I would _never_ let _anyone_ cut off my wing! _Never!_

"Oh, Del," he breathed. "Your . . . your _wing_ . . ."

The sympathy in his voice made me crazy. I didn't _want_ sympathy, and I didn't want to lose my flight! I would _never_ lose my flight! Derek had already been through that hell, and it'd caused him unimaginable grief! I wouldn't suffer the same! I would _not_ be next! But . . . I still couldn't feel my wing . . . It was just dead weight, covering in sticky, still-warm blood. I again coughed up blood and spit it out onto the grass; ugh. Yeah, this was turning out to be a positively _delightful_ day. Derek smoothed my hair, trying to neaten the sloppy ponytail I'd tugged my stubborn locks into on the way to the School to spring _him_. I half-gagged and slowly wiped my nose on the sleeve of my windbreaker, peering down and inspecting the blood that was now there. Yeah, if the Director's cronies didn't outright kill me, then all this blood loss would. I let myself groan in pain.

"Der . . ." I mumbled. He gently clenched my left shoulder since that one _was_ in better shape. "Feel li'e crap . . ."

"You _look_ like it."

Was that sarcasm? Was he trying to make me feel better? I tried to shoot him my nastiest glare, but I think some of the impact was lost because of how badly hurt I was.

"Shuddup. Jus' . . . jus' gimme outta here . . ."

Derek leaned over and pecked me on the forehead, but even that gentle kiss knocked me off-balance, and I tottered over into the grass. He helped me get sitting upright again, but I was still barely together. Up above, I saw what _had_ to be the Flock circling the compound. As far as I could tell, Iggy and the Gasman were dropping grenades onto the School, staying out of range of bullets. As long as all eight of us human-avian freaks were alive by the time we got away, I'd be happy.

Anyway, Derek climbed to his feet and offered his hand, trying to get me to stand up as well, but the best I could manage was a feeble shake of the head. I just couldn't move, was all. I felt as if I were about to pass out again; my head was spinning; my legs were like wet noodles . . . Derek crouched down beside me, brushing away some strands of hair that were plastered by sweat and blood to my forehead.

"Can you stand?" he asked gently. I glared at him as menacingly as I possibly could even though I was beaten nearly to a pulp.

"Jerk."

In case you're curious, my friends, that was Del-speak for a big, fat "_NO!_" Derek just looked at me for exactly one and a half seconds before scooping me into his strong arms as if I weighed little more than a piece of paper. He held me tight as he pushed off from the ground, wings working hard. I could hear him start breathing a little harder, and I felt a little guilty; sure, I don't weight more than a hundred and ten pounds (probably less, actually), but he was still recovering from almost losing his own wing. It probably didn't like having to carry _two_ bird kids to the sky. But could I help the situation? No. Unless, y'know, you wanted me to flap with one wing, but what good would that do? So I just buried my face in his neck and clung to him as best I could manage with my numb right arm; after all, I didn't want to move my shoulder—and, ultimately, my wounded wing—any more than I had to.

In a way, I was sorry to be leaving the School. After all, I had unfinished business. I hadn't yet put a pistol to the Director's head and squeezed the trigger. But having to watch the others come back and rescue me had to be a pain in the butt for her, so I got some mild satisfaction from that as I let myself slip back to semi-consciousness in Derek's arms. I knew he wouldn't let me fall. He'd _never_ let me fall. He'd told me he had my back, remember? He was my _friend_, and he'd _never_ let me down.

Anyway, I didn't know where we were going; I didn't watch. All I knew was that we were evidently getting farther away from the School because the howls of angry Eraser guards were getting quieter. Shortly after, Derek landed, and I let myself crack an eye open again. Even though the world was blurry, I recognized six familiar shapes and felt my heart leap. Derek must've strained his wing too hard in carrying me, for no sooner had he landed than a different yet equally strong and familiar pair of arms took me. And getting still again caused me to realize just how badly everything hurt, but I took comfort in my new guardian. I recognized a distinct set of soft fingertips as well as the scents of chlorine and smoke—obviously from bombs. Those smells were mingled with honest sweat and the "mountain breeze" fragrance (or whatever it was) of the laundry detergent we'd used back in San Francisco. I just breathed deeply and then reached up with my good left arm, clinging to the first thing I could find—which happened to be the front of my new comforter's shirt.

"Iggy . . ." I croaked out, fingers clutching the fabric of his "Pyromaniac: If you see me running, try to keep up" tee-shirt. He held me tight.

"Easy, easy," he murmured in return, and I felt myself being rocked somewhat. "It's okay, Del; it's gonna be okay."

I think he knew I was hurt badly even before Derek told him to lay me down on my stomach. I tried to protest but heard Max shush me, and I just squeezed my eyes shut as I felt my stomach and face come in contact with some rather prickly grass. Ow . . . If only it were that mattress at the hotel room . . . I did my best not to cry, but the tears came when I heard horrified gasps and felt Iggy's hands either on or near my wing, barely feeling the pressure of his hands and most definitely _not_ feeling the pain I knew was there. It didn't take a genius to realize what they'd just seen. I knew my shoulders were shaking with silent sobs by two clues: I felt those sobs welling up inside me, and Nudge lay down beside me so she could hug me.

"Del . . ." Iggy breathed, and I wanted to jump back in his arms and hide in his pyromaniac shirt again. Nudge hugged me as tightly as she dared. I didn't even want to know what the others' expressions were like.

"Your . . . your beautiful _wing_ . . ." Nudge mourned, causing tears to sting my eyes. I decided I'd just have to cry _sometime_, so it might as well be now. "Oh, Del, your _wing_ . . ."

"Yeah," I mumbled, not looking at any of them. "Is crap."

"But it'll get better, right?" Nudge questioned anxiously. "I mean, it's _gotta_, right?"

_No, sweetheart, it don't "gotta,"_ I thought with a miserable sigh, letting myself get pessimistic.

"Of _course_ it will," I heard Angel say. "Derek's did. Del's will, too! And we'll help you, Del! You'll fly again!"

"Sure," Max said. "What good's havin' wings if you can't use 'em?"

_Max . . . just shut up. You're not helping!_

I kept my mouth clenched shut even as Derek pulled a water bottle out of his knapsack and drenched my wing with it. And how do I know this? Because he got a good portion of my back soaking wet, too. _Sigh._ But at least some of the blood washed off. I tried to pick myself up and glance over my shoulder, but to no avail.

"Any feathers left?" I asked dryly. No, I was _not_ feeling good.

"Plenty," Derek murmured. "Just relax, will you?"

He must've had bandages or something in his sack, because he started going for them when Max stopped him with this dead-serious look in her eyes.

"We'll have time for first aid a little later," she said. "Right now we've got a little business to take care of."

Somewhere, I heard Gazzy cackle. I could only guess that, if he had a big blackboard, that he'd write up an equation looking a little something like this: School + bomb BOOM! Derek sighed, and I thought I heard him nod.

"Yeah, I guess we do," he said. "Okay, where is it?"

Gazzy smacked something into Derek's hand that I could only imagine was a bomb. In a matter of seconds, Nudge informed me of the plan: Because Derek was fast, thanks to that teleportation power, and could be stealthy, he was going to take the bomb to the first part of the School he could find. Then he'd set the timer, escape, and meet us for the fireworks show. After that, we'd all go back to San Francisco; I knew I'd probably end up flat on my back in a hospital bed, having to explain just _why_ I had wings. _Sigh._

But as the plan was explained to me, a sudden somber feeling settled on my chest, making it feel as if an anvil were sitting right on top of my heart, squishing it flat. Either I was going into cardiac arrest or something _very_ nasty was about to happen. Even though I probably shouldn't have, I demanded to sit up, and Iggy was the first to help me, letting me lean against him, a support for which I was extremely grateful. And what was more, something about this whole setup rubbed me the wrong way, and while I probably should've said something . . . I didn't. I kept my mouth shut.

Derek got up, holding the bomb, and he gently kissed me atop the head in sort of a "Get well soon" thing, I guessed. Then he took off and soared back toward the School; I watched until I couldn't see him anymore. I blinked and looked over at Max.

"How come he doesn't have an escort?" I asked blearily.

She seemed to consider my question for all of two seconds before she waved to Fang and the two of them shot off into the sky. When they were gone, I sagged into Iggy, and he just gently supported me. Under his direction, Nudge scrambled for the bandages in Derek's backpack, which he'd left behind during his "bombing run" of sorts on the School. She started to get me wrapped up, but I waved her off, trying to get to my feet. But, well, my legs were like noodles, so that didn't work out well. I just ended up tumbling back into Iggy's arms and, once again, spitting blood onto the grass. And, yes, Nudge _did_ go "Ew!" Iggy just gave my shoulder a squeeze.

"You don't need to be moving," he told me. I coughed.

"Yeah, I kinda do," I replied. "That place is gonna get blown up . . . an' I wanna see it. Jus' . . . jus' help me up, an' I'll be fine."

Angel told me that I ought to rest, but I told her that, like Max had said, we'd have time for first aid and rest later. She, Nudge, and Iggy all sighed; Gazzy was ecstatic to see an explosion, and Total was asleep with his head on his paws. There were a few minutes of awkward silence before Gazzy piped up and agreed that, hey! Witnessing the utter annihilation of the School would be terrific fun! So while Angel awakened Total and picked him up, Iggy gently scooped me into his arms, letting me hang on tight to the back of his neck with my good left arm. Then he took off, and I didn't even say "Hey, you're _blind_! How the _hell_ are you flying properly _and_ carrying me?!" I trusted him more than that, all right? Ahem.

I nearly passed out again during the brief flight back to the School, but I made myself stay awake because I would _not_ miss out on the grand destruction of that hellhole. I'd waited long enough to see it that I wasn't gonna miss out on it just because of blood loss. So I made myself stay awake as we flew over, with Nudge and Angel zipping ahead to hail Max and Fang and let them know we were here. Gazzy was cruising along, eyes fixed firmly on the School, just _waiting_ for the explosion. I still clung tight to Iggy, peering down from his grasp. We were high enough up that we weren't really getting shot at; I figured that all the guards were busy trying to take Derek down. I swallowed hard; what if he got shot and none of us could get down there to help him? What if he got captured _again_?! I voiced this concern to Iggy, who just gave me a gentle squeeze and told me that everything would be fine. I wasn't sure, though. It wasn't that I distrusted Iggy; it was that I had _another_ of those bad feelings, and that feeling was making my stomach clench nervously. I didn't like the ominous weight that had settled on my shoulders.

We circled the School for a few minutes before Angel banked to come up alongside Iggy. I looked over at her, and her big blue eyes met my gray ones and just held for a long, long time. Then she reached over and took my hand, giving it a squeeze that was harder than I'd anticipated.

"He set the bomb," she said, evoking a whoop of excitement from Gazzy, who was cruising nearby. "He's coming."

"He's got two minutes," Iggy murmured.

I jumped and clenched his shirt in fright. Two minutes? One hundred and twenty seconds? That was _it_?! That was all the timer had been set for?! That was as much time as Derek had to get the hell out of there and back up to us?! I would've wanted at _least_ ten minutes to get through the School and all the guards! I started chewing on my lip but found that it hurt too much to do so. Angel just gazed at me, and Nudge, who was flying slightly above and to the left of us, stared down.

"Two minutes isn't enough!" she cried.

I wanted to scream "I know that!" but couldn't; I didn't have the strength or the voice to do it. I just squeezed my eyes shut and pressed my head to Iggy's shoulder, not wanting to watch anymore. I _couldn't_ watch anymore. My heart was pounding in my chest, thumping in my ears, and I just _knew_ that something was going wrong. Even from our altitude, I could hear growling, snarling, hissing, some gunfire . . .

_One minute, thirty seconds._

I began a mental countdown as Max, Fang, and Gazzy soared over to join us in something of a hover. Max's brows were furrowed; I knew she was worried about Batchelder. Fang's face was unreadable as it always was; Gazzy looked ever so excited over the impending explosion. Nudge looked ready to freak, Angel's brows were furrowed in concentration, and Iggy was just focusing on holding me. I dared to peer down at the ground for any sign of Derek.

_One minute and closing_.

I couldn't see him. Angel obviously still sensed him; he _had_ to have still been running, trying to find an exit, trying to get to us! My fist tightened around Iggy's shirt again.

_Thirty seconds._

My heart was pounding harder now as that anvil-like weight that was my bad feeling kept settling in, getting heavier and more painful. I felt as though I were about to go insane from the weight of it, but I tried to stay calm, tried to take deep breaths, tried to just keep from freaking out. Iggy gave me as gentle a squeeze as he could possibly manage. I just tried to keep breathing steadily.

_Twenty seconds._

I glanced at Gazzy. His excitement over the rapidly approaching explosion was starting to affect the rest of us; Total was wriggling in Angel's arms, wagging his tail and letting his tongue loll out. I think he was glad to see the School go, too. I just was terrified that Derek wouldn't make it out! He only had fifteen seconds. He'd _never_ make it unless he emerged _now_.

_Ten seconds._

I didn't look again. Angel was still keeping an eye on the scene, watching for Derek, but I couldn't. I just _couldn't_. I was starting to shake. Unless Derek did his cool little teleportation thing and suddenly appeared right next to me . . . I didn't wanna think about it! I whimpered, and Iggy held me tight. I just breathed a prayer under my breath for Derek's safety.

_Nine._

_God, don't let him die._

_Eight._

_I don't know what I'd do if he did._

_Seven._

_You've gotta protect him._

_Six._

_Just bring him out of there in one piece._

_Five._

_I swear, I'll do whatever You want if You'll just bring him back._

_Four._

_Four seconds ain't long enough, is it?_

_Three._

_Oh, God, don't let me lose him!_

_Two._

_Please, I beg You!_

_One._

_Don't take Derek from me!_

I squeezed my eyes shut as there was a rumble that grew steadily louder until a gaping hole erupted in the School's roof, venting out an enormous, glowing fireball and thick clouds of dark, dark smoke. In that instant, as the heat wave rolled up and across us, time just seemed to grind to a halt. My breath stopped in my lungs as I finally turned to stare, horrified, at the open wound in the School. No, the entire building hadn't been destroyed, but it was badly crippled. Half the roof was just engulfed in rolling, bright orange flames and ash, and I saw at least four scientists, lab coats afire, stagger out into the yard in an attempt to practice that "stop, drop, and roll," thing. But I just stared in shock at the scene laid out before us, not even registering the fact that the others were equally stunned and that Gazzy hadn't even whooped. If I'd been flying, I would've stopped flapping and sunk a few feet, but I wasn't, so I skipped right to the next stage in my horrified reaction.

Instantly, my throat clenched so tight I had trouble swallowing. Hot tears stung my eyes as I immediately buried my head in Iggy's chest, squeezing my eyes shut as I started to shake, shell-shocked. This wasn't . . . He couldn't . . . Not _Derek_! Derek was practically _invincible_! He'd recovered from that crippling wing injury and had relearned how to fly! But he wasn't soaring up to meet us, wasn't teleporting out, wasn't just appearing beside us and asking why we all looked so miserable. It took about five minutes before the truth that he wasn't coming back really sank in, and that's when I lost it. I started screaming into Iggy's shirt, trying to muffle it and half-succeeding. Then I started sobbing, shaking so hard I thought I'd end up wiggling my way free of his arms and just freefalling to the ground. He just held me tight, trying to soothe me with those timeworn words "Shh, shh; it's okay; it's okay." Well, it was _not_ okay. I'd just lost my dearest friend in the entire world! I just bawled miserably, clutching his shirt so hard that my hand trembled. The others just hung in the air, staring down. Angel was starting to cry, too, and Nudge was whimpering; poor Gazzy was too upset to even cheer for the explosion that had been caused by a bomb he'd helped construct. I figured Fang looked stoic as always, but I heard a deep sigh from him that made me think otherwise. Apparently he was in as much a state of mourning as the rest of us. Even Total sniffled sadly, and Max just didn't say anything for a long, long time. Then she exhaled kind of shakily.

"Where's Jeb?" she whispered, sounding . . . _scared_.

If I hadn't been sobbing over Derek, I would've screamed at her that it was absolutely _selfish_ to be worried over Batchelder when Derek was _dead_. But I kept my mouth shut for two reasons: my heart ached too much because of what had just happened, and I knew that since he was her father, she had every right to be worried. Nudge sailed over, sniffling sadly, to comfort her "big sister," and I just stayed buried in Iggy's shirt.

"It's . . . it's not . . . it's not _f—fair_!" I managed, still shaking.

"I know it's not fair," he replied, stroking my blood-spattered hair. "And it doesn't make anybody happy except the bad guys."

"'Cause he was our friend, too," Nudge finished with a whimper, wringing her hands.

Angel sniffled and tried to bite back a sob. If I'd been able to fly, I would've gone to her and held her tight because she was just trying to be such a little trooper. I wasn't expecting any of us to be stoic, least of all me. My mind kept wandering back to Sacramento, when Derek had kissed me in that park and, afterward, I'd almost asked him to do it again. Just the thought of that made me start crying all over again, and I must've looked really pathetic because Iggy rubbed my good left shoulder and Nudge flew over to hug me. I barely even noticed when a big, black SUV roared away from the wreckage, headed toward the woods, and, a few moments later, a second one roared off in the opposite direction across what used to be the back half of the School. When I finally registered that, I was overwhelmed with hot, raging anger to know that the Director had probably escaped. Angel gazed sadly at me.

"We'll get her," she whispered. "She can't escape forever."

Yeah, like _that_ made me feel better. She'd already beaten me nearly to death, and now Derek was dead because we'd been trying to put an end to her evilness. We'd tried to do something _right_, and in the end, the only people that had won had been her and her minions. Now if _that_ doesn't make you lose hope that evil will ever be vanquished . . . I just heaved a shuddering sigh and tried not to cry anymore, but hot tears were still rolling down my face and getting Iggy's shirt all wet. I mumbled an apology; he just gently kissed the top of my head and told me it was okay. I didn't believe him.

I was just trying to get myself back under control—and failing—when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw that Max and Fang were cautiously tracking that black SUV, which was now slowing to a halt at the edge of the woods a good, long distance from the School. Angel wheeled around, eyes widening and face actually brightening, long before the door on the driver's side ever opened.

"It's Jeb!" she announced, and evident relief washed over Max's face. "He's okay!"

_Yeah, good for you,_ I thought bitterly, still hiding my face in Iggy's neck. If only I could get Derek back that way.

_Why'd he have to go, God?_ I asked silently, feeling my heart break all over again. _He didn't deserve it. Why couldn't he make it out? I don't know what I'm gonna do without him. Just . . . I miss him so much!_

I almost started crying again, but then I felt Iggy bank and start sailing down to a lower altitude. I realized then that we were going down to meet Batchelder. The others were already there and talking to him when Iggy landed; I heard Max expressing her relief that Batchelder was all right, and I heard them hug. Nudge and Angel hugged him, too, and Gazzy got an affectionate head rub. I just felt as left out as I'd felt when I'd first met these kids. That nearly got me to cry—_again_. I just swiped at my eyes with the back of my hand, accidentally using my right one and feeling pain shoot up my shoulder. My wing was still basically dead weight, but my shoulder had some nerve endings that still functioned. I hissed in pain and nearly swore but somehow kept that four-letter word to myself. Iggy just gave me another squeeze, and I just somehow _knew_ that everyone else was looking at me.

"She's hurt real bad," Nudge told Batchelder, concern in her voice. "Her wing's torn up, and her face got clawed . . ."

Either Max or Fang shushed her because she went quiet. Out of my good right ear, I heard footsteps on the grass before I felt Batchelder's hand on my arm. I whimpered and pulled away, shaking again.

"Del," he said gently. "Del, honey, let me look at it."

I shook my head fiercely, but that only made it swim and swirl, and I felt as if I would throw up. I just readjusted my grip on Iggy and hung on tight. Batchelder didn't move his hand from my arm.

"Del," he said, "I know what they did to you. I know how much it hurts. But you've got to let me look at it or it might get infected."

He didn't say it, but I knew that the thought that followed that was "And you might lose your wing." I just whimpered again, unwilling to let anyone see me weak. But a fresh burst of pain from all my wounds—my broken rib, especially—reminded me that, yeah, I _did_ need help. Besides, when _they_ had taken me out to the yard the second time, I'd begged and pleaded with him to help me. I'd screamed until I'd been hoarse. Well, now he was trying to help me, and I _did_ need it . . . I just nodded feebly, again making my head swim, and Iggy gently handed me over. The next thing I knew, I was lying down on my stomach in the back of that SUV, biting back yelps of pain as Batchelder doused my wounds with alcohol. But I couldn't feel the pain that I knew was there when he took my right wing and gently extended it, pulling it straight. I heard the faint gasps from the others, though; apparently things were worse than I'd thought. I just bit my lip and tried not to cry, tried to be brave, as Batchelder cleaned it, too, before wrapping it in clean bandages until it looked like it'd been mummified. Apparently bandaging my wing reminded him of a certain student of his, because he paused abruptly.

"Where's Derek?" he asked.

Silence answered him, and that silence was broken after a few moments by a mournful sniffle, courtesy Nudge. Batchelder didn't say anything, but I knew he'd figured it out, that he knew we were now one member short. He sighed softly, sadly, and I squeezed my eyes shut as tears leaked out again. This time, I didn't even try to stop them. I just let myself cry. I just couldn't envision what life would be like without Derek. I also couldn't see far enough into the future to know if I'd ever heal from losing him. I mean, he was a good kid; he hadn't done anything wrong! In fact, he'd been trying to do something _right_. He'd been trying to give the School everything it had coming to it. And what had they done? Killed him. Right then and there, I swore to myself that, if ever I saw the Director again, I wouldn't waste a minute before snapping her neck. She _deserved_ to die for all the hell she'd put us all through, and she _especially_ deserved to die for taking Derek from me! Well, I'd get her. She would _pay_.

It was another hour before every last thing was taken care of. Since Batchelder couldn't very well wrap my entire face in bandages, he stuck gauze to the claw marks down my cheek by using some medical tape or other. Yeah, that'd been fun . . . Rubbing alcohol on open claw marks ain't exactly a pleasant sensation. And my broken rib? Ugh. He played chiropractor by touching it and pressing on it (and making me swear) before he just pressed on it at a certain angle and the two halves of the bone met in the middle. Then he wrapped my gut so tight I could barely breathe, and he told me just to take it easy and let my speed-healing do the rest. I mumbled something of a half-hearted "Thanks" before trying to get at least a little comfy. Batchelder must've been planning an escape from the School for a while because he had a whole ice chest full of water and snacks, which the others munched on. I just kept to myself, staring at the wisps of black smoke rising from what used to be a lab. I tried not to think about Derek, but I couldn't help it. Every time I thought of how much I'd grown to care about him, my throat clenched and I couldn't breathe. And, what's worse, I started to cry again, and that made my rib hurt, which made me cry harder. And I'd just gotten started when I heard footsteps on the grass, so I looked up to find Batchelder there, gazing concernedly at me. I just looked the other way as fast as I possibly could, again making my head swim but really not caring about it. Maybe I'd even feel better if I threw up; I didn't know.

I tried not to make eye contact with Batchelder, but it didn't work. Though I really didn't want him to, he sat down beside me. I still didn't look at him. He didn't say anything for a long, long time, but then he just exhaled slowly and shifted enough to make the back of the SUV bounce slightly. I winced as that little motion made my rib hurt again.

"I'm sorry, Del," he said finally, making me bite my lip to keep from bawling hysterically. "Max told me you and Derek were close."

Yeah, _close_. Close as in, "nearing the boyfriend-girlfriend stage." I bit my lip harder; I did _not_ need Batchelder to come pity me right now. I just wanted to be left _alone_. See, that's the thing about me. If I get depressed or otherwise upset, I don't want commiseration. I want to be left to myself, to crawl into a dark corner and hide if I so choose. I inhaled slowly, trying not to let that be a shuddering breath, and just stared ahead from where I was sitting.

"Yeah."

Batchelder reached over and gently patted my knee, and I stiffened at that touch. But then I remembered that I'd finally figured out that he hadn't been trying to trick me or scare me and that he really _did_ care about me. So what did I do? I sniffled twice and ended up with my head on his shoulder, trying not to cry again. Now I was seeing why Max and her family loved him so—why Derek had loved him. He was just . . . He was treating me like his own kid. He was treating me like somebody important. While I liked the fact that I felt important, that treatment made me think of Derek and the chat we'd had while flying over to Ghirardelli Square . . . when he'd told me that he had my back. I just couldn't see myself functioning without knowing he'd be behind me! Yeah, I'd be healing—both physically and emotionally—for a long, long time.

A minute or two later, Batchelder announced that it was time to get a move on. He herded us all into the SUV, with Max in the passenger's side up front and the rest of us crammed into the middle and back rows. I was on the back row so I could recline the seat a bit if I wanted to rest, and Iggy had demanded to sit beside me and make sure I was okay. Angel and Total added "Me too!" to that, so it was her and us on the back row and the remaining three on the middle. By the time everything was settled, I was between Iggy and Angel with Iggy's arm around my good shoulder and my head on his chest. Then Batchelder just started driving, though I didn't know to where, carrying us away from the School . . . away from the place Derek had died. The fact that we were leaving without him—even his body—made me burst into tears again. I tried to hide it, but Angel reached over and patted my hand, telling me that it was okay to cry. When I looked over at her, I saw that her eyes were watery, too. Total crawled across the seat and climbed into the crook of my good left arm, resting his little doggie chin on my shoulder.

"There, there," he sighed, sounding as consoling as a Scottie possibly can.

"Hey," Gazzy piped up, "there ain't nothin' like man's best friend—but with audio!"

The others snickered and offered small smiles, and I tried to muster one of my own but found I couldn't. I just clung to Total and let my tears fall into his fur. Damn dog; I'd always been willing to drop him off a cliff, but look at who I was clinging to now. I slowly started to stroke the fur on his back, sniffling and not even bothering to wipe the tears off my face. Iggy gave me a gentle squeeze and didn't even mind when I didn't squeeze back. I just kept silently weeping, mourning Derek. After all, if I'd thought out my rescue plan better, we could've rescued him without my getting captured. And if I hadn't been captured, he and the others wouldn't have had to double back for me. He'd still be with us. I wiped a tear away, but more came to replace it. I felt even worse when I thought about how he wouldn't even get a decent burial now. We'd just . . . abandoned him, really. I also knew that he probably wouldn't want me to just sit and sob over him, but right now, there really wasn't much else I could do. I was beginning to get a headache from all my crying, though, so I tried not to think about Derek anymore, instead concentrating on what I'd do the next time I saw the Director. I knew that, the next time I did, I would kill her and not even give it a second thought. The world would be far better off without her; I planned on showing her _no_ mercy because she deserved _none_.

_I'll kill you,_ I thought. _I'll kill you for stealing Derek from me. And when you see me descending on you, lust for your blood boiling in my eyes, it will be with fire and brimstone and all of hell's fury. I will show you no mercy as you _ever_ showed any of us. You will regret _everything_ you've ever done to us by the time I'm finished with you, and before you die, the last thing you will see will be your greatest creation relieving you of your pathetic existence. I swear it._

Thinking on that threat kept me from crying, so I kept silently repeating it to myself until physical and mental exhaustion from the day and the pain of my injuries and of losing Derek overwhelmed me and I ended up dozing off into a restless sleep.


	29. 28: Arizona

**A/N:** Derek to _JaxSolo_, Del to me, everyone else to James Patterson. Please try not to kill me for the events in ch. 27...

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-eight – Arizona **

When I woke up at long last, I looked out the window and found it was dark. Around me, everyone else was sound asleep; Total was snoring right next to my ear, but since it was my left ear, it didn't bother me. We were still moving; from what I could tell, Batchelder had us cruising down the Interstate, and my internal compass (insert another occasion when bird genes are handy) said we were going in something of a south or southeast direction. Up on the dashboard, there was a little digital readout stating the time, and its bright green letters said that it was almost two in the morning. Wow, I _had_ slept a long time. I settled back, wide awake, Total still in my arms, and watched the dark world go by. I missed Derek; there was no denying that. But I wouldn't let myself cry over him until the Director was taken care of. There was _no_ way I'd allow her to get away with this newest atrocity. I mean, Derek was my friend—maybe more than my friend. And if I didn't defend who he was, who would?

I leaned back into my seat, trying to let the rocking motion of the SUV calm me down. Unfortunately, that didn't quite work out, because every little bump in the road sent shockwaves up pain up my side courtesy that fractured rib. I tried to envision myself flying, but the thought of that made my wing ache so badly that I gave it up. I tried to get comfortable, but just as I found a relatively nice position, Batchelder pulled over onto the edge of the highway. I figured maybe he was going to get some sleep, too, but the minute he pulled over, Fang crawled out of the middle section and traded spots with Batchelder. The next thing I knew, we were back off down the highway, Fang at the wheel, and I found myself wondering how the Laptop King knew how to drive. Then again, maybe years of having to run for your life teach you a few handy traits. And for all I knew, he had a driver's license. I doubted it, but imagining that he did made me feel a little better because I had the hope that maybe he was a capable driver after all.

We'd been driving for another ten minutes before I finally had to admit to myself that Fang wasn't all that bad of a driver. I tried to relax but found I was still wound tighter than a spring. Great. This would be a _really_ fun evening if I couldn't get back to sleep. I was trying also not to awaken Iggy, Angel, or Total, but all my constant shifting kind of defeated that purpose. Angel kept snoozing on, but Total crawled out of my arms with a grumble and returned to Angel's embrace. I sighed and again tried to get comfy; this time, Iggy's arm ended up around my shoulder again, drawing me closer to his side. I gave up trying to get comfortable and just laid my head against his shoulder, trying not to swear under my breath every time the road surface was a little bumpy. At one point, I gave up, and one of my handy-dandy little cuss words came tumbling out in a low grumble. Hey, I couldn't help it! My side throbbed and sent stabs of pain up my entire body every single time we hit a pothole or something. But guess what happened then. Yep, Iggy woke up. He gave my good shoulder a squeeze as he stretched a bit and blinked awake.

"You okay?" he murmured. I sighed.

"Oh, sure," I replied with extra-thick sarcasm. "My side hurts like hell, I can't feel my wing, but other than that, I'm peachy."

He gave my shoulder another squeeze before shifting slightly as if trying to cuddle me into himself. And, folks, cuddling in the backseat when you're strapped down with seatbelts isn't exactly _easy_. I sighed and let him hold me because, well, I needed a shoulder. The slightly more selfish reason was that the air conditioner in the SUV was on, I was _freezing_, and Iggy was there and conveniently warm. He rubbed my left arm as I eased it around his waist, trying to be glad that _somebody_ was there for me. I found it difficult to be optimistic, however, when I knew that our mission wasn't over and _wouldn't_ be over until a certain Director of Itex lay dead at my feet.

"You'll heal," Iggy told me quietly, snapping me out of my thoughts. "Things are bound to start lookin' up."

I wanted to tell him to stop being so damned optimistic before I went nuts from it, but I didn't. I just sighed, still leaning my head against him, still trying to stay calm. Then I looked up at him in the darkness, seeing little flashes of light from the street lights we passed flashing on his face.

"How come you're so optimistic?" I asked. He smiled wryly.

"I kinda have to be," he replied softly.

I knew what he meant. He was talking about the same thing he'd mentioned after I'd revealed to them all just who and what I was and he'd said, "I just deal. Have been, what with . . . _you know_." I sighed again, lightly squeezing his waist with my one good arm. He squeezed my shoulder again before gently pecking my forehead. My heart ached at that contact; it made me think of Derek, but I tried not to get all weepy again. Instead, I just squeezed him harder.

"Things _will_ get better," he repeated. I heard myself sniffle.

"What if they don't?"

He sighed and reached up, gently stroking my hair. I bit off a sob, instead gripping his shirt. He just told me everything was okay, that all would be fine, that we'd take care of the Director . . . that everything would just work out. And what did I do? I let go of everything and believed him.

* * *

I'm certain that I finally fell asleep again because I suddenly awoke with a jerk and found that it was brighter outside. Batchelder was at the wheel again, and Gazzy and Nudge were still asleep. The rest of us were awake and staring out the windows of the SUV, watching the world go by. Now, I don't know about you, but long road trips in the back of a big black SUV aren't my thing. They tend to make me anxious and eager to get out and fly. But, well, that was the second thing I noticed: my wing was still crap. The third thing I noticed: I automatically started looking for Derek. When I realized he wasn't in the SUV and I remembered what had happened, my chest got really tight and achy-feeling. It wasn't exactly pleasant because I missed him so much. But then a lust for vengeance surged through me, reminding me why I had to keep going. And boy, was I _ever_ gonna keep going.

We kept driving, and though I wanted to ask "Where are we going?" I didn't. I didn't have to. Angel looked at me with those big blue eyes of hers and said sweetly, "I think we're going to Arizona." When the thought "Uh, _why_?" crossed my mind, she beamed at me.

"To see Max's mom!"

I blinked. Max had a _mom_? Well, sure, I knew she did; Max herself had mentioned the woman, after all. I just . . . I didn't think we'd actually be going to see her. But I knew that there was more to this than just a simple visit, and I think Max knew that I knew. She turned slightly from the passenger's side and looked back at me, seeming a bit tired. Huh. Maybe she hadn't slept much or well last night. Maybe she was thinking on the same things I was: kill the Director, avenge our loss.

"She's a vet," she explained. I scoffed.

"Yeah, that's just handy, isn't it?"

"But we don't want you to get sick, Del!" Angel said, clutching my arm. "Max's mom can help you! She can make you better. And you don't even have to be scared because she's nice."

I offered Angel my best little smile, trying to assure her that everything was fine and I wasn't scared. Inside, I was all "A _vet_? Max's mom is a freakin' _vet_?! Oh, man, how ironic is _that_? Send a bird kid to a vet; that's _hilarious_!" I sighed a bit, making momentary eye contact with Max.

"Why don't you tell me why we're _really_ going, Max?" I said. "Surely we're not just going to see your mom the vet just for the heck of it."

Max and Batchelder exchanged a look; Fang glanced over his shoulder at me; Iggy squeezed my hand; Nudge and Gazzy were still oblivious; and Angel just gave me a hug.

"We need time to regroup," Max replied. "Gotta get our strength back, heal up, get some good rest. And Mom's house is the safest place I know of."

"So, basically," I said rather grumpily, "we're going there to hide."

Max's eyes flashed once and only once.

"No. We're going there to regroup."

Well, well, look who was having a standoff so early in the morning. Iggy murmured for me to calm down, and I think Batchelder just sighed, gritted his teeth, and kept driving. You're a smart man, Batchelder; you know _never_ to get in my way when I get irritated. Well, the situation was about to get nasty; I was about to revolt against the Maxocracy (I didn't coin that word, so don't praise me over it) and hurl a few nasty insults when Total broke the tense silence. He sat up, yawned, and scratched himself behind the ear before blinking at Max.

"I'm hungry." That was all he said.

Almost immediately, Angel chimed in with "Me too!" as Iggy added his own assent of "Yeah, I could stand somethin'." I knew what they were doing. They were trying to get the storm blown over before it happened. I guess they were right in doing so; I mean, my blood sugar was probably dipping too low anyway. And you know by now that I get _mean_ when my blood sugar's too low.

Ten minutes later, Batchelder veered off the highway, and another five minutes passed before we drove into the parking lot of a Burger King. When the SUV came to a halt, Nudge and Gazzy groaned and struggled their ways awake, and I was already clambering out of the backseat. Of course, that was hard to do without the middle seats being cleared, so I just had to wait a minute. When I got out, Angel tossed my windbreaker to Iggy, who draped it around my shoulders to hide my bandaged wing. Having my arm in a sling could be easily explained if anybody asked, though I doubted anyone would. I mean, reckless teenagers break arms and sprain wrists all the time, right? My face still looked like I'd been run over by a lawnmower, but maybe nobody would ask. I could hear it now: "Hey, kid, you look like you got clawed by a rabid wolf." "Yeah, about that . . ."

Anyway, the plan was this: we'd go in, get food (as in, our answer to "For here or to go?" would be "To go"), come back to the SUV. This was mostly a "walk around, stretch your legs, hit the restroom" sort of outing, _not_ "Let's dine out in high style." So, yeah, we walked across the parking lot, and I was trying not to limp from what had been a bullet hole in my leg. Too bad; I did anyway. And, man, did I look and feel like crap. It was agony just to walk across the parking lot and _not_ jar my cracked rib too badly. When we got in the door, the place had a few customers, but no throngs of hungry humans. Batchelder told us to go get washed up and leave the ordering to him; I figured he'd just get, like, three of everything on the breakfast menu. So we girls went to the ladies' room while the guys slipped into the gents', and, luckily for us gals, we had the entire place to ourselves. Sure, there were only two stalls, which meant turn-taking, but hey. It _was_ a functional bathroom, and Nudge was already saying that she had to go _bad_. She and I, therefore, went first. And let me tell you something: attempting to use the restroom with only one functional arm is _not_ easy. For one thing, why can't jean manufacturers make a quick-release button?! And my cracked rib wasn't helping matters, either. Who knew trying to use the restroom when you're beat to a pulp could be so difficult and painful?! Anyway. I was grumbling to myself so much that Max asked me if I were okay.

"Peachy," I replied, still grumpily.

"Need help?" she asked.

"Hell, no!" I exclaimed. "Look, I don't care if you're another girl; it's still embarrassing!"

Angel burst out laughing as Max slacked off. Eventually, I just slipped my right arm out of the makeshift sling and tried to ignore the pain that shot all through it. But hey—I wasn't one-handed anymore. _Finally_, I got out and went to wash my hands, and when I was finished, I slipped my arm back into the sling and allowed myself to at last hiss in pain.

"I _so_ need an aspirin," I sighed. "This hurts."

"You'll get better," Angel told me as she came to wash her hands as well. "Don't worry. You'll feel better soon."

I just hoped she was right. Heck, maybe the fact that Max's mom was a vet would help out a whole lot. Like, maybe she'd specialized in avian healthcare and could make my wing work again. In my dreams, right?

Within five minutes, we were leaving the restaurant, each carrying a sack of food. Batchelder had gotten one for each of us and told us to eat what we wanted out of it or trade with somebody else. I didn't care _what_ was in my sack; I was too hungry. I think everybody else felt the same, because there was little trading going on. The only one was Gazzy going "Hey, Ig, I'll trade you my hash browns for your mini cinnamon rolls," to which Iggy replied "No!" Okay, so the man likes his sugar in the morning. I just ate everything in my bag within five minutes, wolfing it down so fast I almost literally inhaled it.

"So when're we gonna get there?" I asked, mouth full, as I polished off what was left of my breakfast sandwich. I hadn't paused to find out what kind it was; I'd just eaten it. But I'd assume it was—"was" being the operative word in this case—sausage and scrambled eggs or something equally breakfast-y.

"Should be there before suppertime," replied Batchelder, holding a Styrofoam cup of piping hot coffee in one hand and the steering wheel in the other.

I sighed and tried to get relaxed again, but as with the night before, every little bump sent shockwaves of pain through my body, making me grit my teeth and try not to swear. As a result, I couldn't get comfy. Yep, this was gonna be a long, _long_ day.

* * *

As predicted, we pulled up at a nice little house sometime around five-thirty; depending on your family's customs, that may very well be before supper. I was leaning on Iggy again; the last leg of the trip had been particularly rough, and I was in agony. My side burned like fire, and I still couldn't feel my wing; however, I could feel my arm, and it ached like nothing else. Everything hurt so badly that I didn't even ask "We here?" when the SUV came to a halt. Instead, the others clambered out, and Iggy ended up carrying me because I just didn't feel like walking. I didn't like sending those pain barbs shooting up my side. It wasn't pleasant.

Anyway, as we approached the nice little house with the nice, normal-looking yard (complete with fence) via the walkway out front, the front porch light came on. The next moment, the screen door creaked open, and a fat Bassett hound came waddling out, followed by a Hispanic-looking lady. The way Max ran up to that porch to embrace her told me that, yep, that was her mom. I felt a pang of sadness (in addition to the physical pain) because I didn't have a mother who'd love me like that and welcome me home with open arms. Then from the house came a girl who was probably a couple years younger than Max; they hugged, too, and the girl looked absolutely delighted. Max's mom came down the porch steps, approaching the rest of us—particularly me. Apparently Batchelder had called ahead to let her know we were coming, because Max's mom (whose name, I had learned during the road trip, was Dr. Martinez) didn't seem at all surprised by my presence and/or wounds. Instead, she just gave my hand a very mom-like squeeze.

"And you're Del," she said, confirming what I'd figured about her having known in advance that we were coming. I coughed faintly.

"Was it the busted wing that gave it away?"

Now, notice that, when I said "busted," I meant _really_ busted. Somehow, the healing scabs on my wing had split open, and I felt that blood was soaking the bandages all over again. Dr. Martinez just gave my hand another squeeze before motioning Batchelder and Iggy toward the house. I was beginning to feel _very_ hazy, a fact that told me that, yep, I was losing blood. I think Iggy felt it too because he worriedly told both present adults that he thought I was bleeding. _That_ kicked the little first aid team into action. Dr. Martinez led the way through her nicely air-conditioned house to a back bedroom, the door of which she threw open. I saw through my blood loss-bleary eyes that the bed was covered in towels and old sheets; guess she didn't wanna get blood all over her nice Egyptian cotton bedclothes. Oh well. As Ig gently laid me on my stomach on the towel-covered bed, gingerly tugging off my windbreaker, I heard Dr. Martinez say something to someone about going off to get some hot water for cleaning purposes. If I'd been feeling better, I would've made some quip along the lines of "I've got a busted wing; I'm not in labor!" But I couldn't. Instead, I just lay there, trying not to scream "DAMMIT, THIS HURTS!" at the top of my lungs.

Then they started unwrapping my wing. Ow, ow, _ow_. Worse than that, Vet Mom started unfolding the stupid thing. Pain shot up and down my back and right arm and shoulder; I hissed in a breath as she doused it with hot water, then antiseptics. At that point, I was overwhelmed with a sudden rush of longing for Derek to be there with me. He knew what this was like; he'd just sit beside me, holding my hand, stroking my palm, telling me it'd be okay. But he wasn't there; he wasn't even standing at the door and peering worriedly in. I felt myself heave a shaky breath as pain and loss swallowed me.

"Hurts," I croaked.

As if Dr. Martinez hadn't been all . . . doctor-y . . . from the minute I'd walked—'scuse, been carried—through the door, she went into full-blown doctor mode the minute I said that. I think she even started pulling meds out of her bag—probably some morphine or something to shut me up about any and all pain I was experiencing. Yeah, that wouldn't be so bad: medicine to make me feel less as if I were dying.

"What does, Del?" she asked me. "What hurts? Your wing?"

No, my wing didn't hurt. I couldn't feel it, remember? I coughed, clenching my eyes shut.

"M' heart."

I think she about freaked out. She was probably gonna go run fetch a defibrillator if I as much as clutched my chest. Yep, I just _knew_ she thought I was going into cardiac arrest, but I knew I wasn't. Max, who'd brought that hot water, knew so, too. I heard her reach out and touch her mom's arm.

"Mom, I don't . . . I don't think that's what she means," she said softly.

She then explained the whole story of how Derek and I had met them (leaving out the bit about my assassin-ness, I might add) and how we'd all become good friends. She gave the nutshell version of how he and I were close (leaving out the Sacramento Incident, to my combined dismay and relief) and that we'd just lost him yesterday. Tears began streaming down my face and onto the towel-covered bed as Dr. Martinez gently stroked my hair in that understanding mom-like way she had. Max concluded her tale by saying that my heart no doubt hurt because I missed Derek so much. Oh, if only you knew, Max. If only you knew. I doubted she'd ever missed anyone so much, but, then again, I didn't know.

I just lay there, feeling blood running down my side from my wing, feeling my heart ache with loss, feeling Ig sitting there at my side and holding my left hand. Then Dr. Martinez murmured something I didn't quite get, but then there was an unexpected prick in my arm. Another few minutes passed, and I got steadily groggier; yeah, I'd figured she'd jabbed me with a sedative. The next thing I knew, I passed out cold on an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar house in the middle of Arizona.


	30. 29: A Good Morning According to Whom?

**A/N:** Derek to _JaxSolo_, Del to me, everybody else to James Patterson. And we have Ella and Dr. Martinez, yay! Oh, and what's the Bassett hound's name? Is it Daisy or something? I can't remember and was too lazy to look it up. Oh well. XD Anyhoo, I guess the people who are shipping Del/Iggy--I guess we can call it Iggel, yes?--can find some joy in this chapter. A little. Maybe. XD

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-nine – A Good Morning According to Whom?**

_I didn't know where I was. It was dark, almost like a forest, but there was bright, golden sunlight streaming through a break in the trees as if to assure me that the world would be all right as long as the sun still shone. There was a gentle, cool breeze blowing through this little wood, keeping the temperature even. I was strolling along a quaint little footpath, surveying the foliage and watching butterflies flit across my path. Every once in a while, I saw a squirrel scurry up the side of a big oak tree, pause, chirp at me, then scamper along to a hole in the tree. Then, out of nowhere, a voice spoke my name, almost in a whisper._

"_Del."_

_I wheeled around at hearing my name being called. I wasn't sure where the voice had come from or who had just spoken to me. I didn't see anyone behind me, nor on either side, nor in front of me._

"_Who are you?" I called out, dropping automatically into a defensive posture that meant I'd fight to the death if someone were about to leap out and harm me. "Come out where I can see ya before I call you a big, fat coward!"_

_There was rustling in the underbrush nearby, and my wings slowly started unfolding from my back. My wings . . . Hey, my wings! They both worked! I'd be able to fly out of here! The one that had been clawed didn't ache, it wasn't bleeding, nothing. I kept watching a break in the underbrush, watching as a tall figure stepped out—a tall, lanky figure with shaggy brown hair and freakishly familiar red-brown eyes. He wore a smile that I recognized. My balled fists immediately dropped as my eyes widened and tears sprung into them._

"_Derek . . ." I breathed. "Derek . . . !"_

_Instantly, I launched myself at him in a huge hug, flinging my arms around his neck and squeezing as I began to sob with joy, relief, the whole nine yards. He held me back, arms tight around me, quietly telling me to hush, that it was okay, that he was here, that everything would be fine now . . ._

"_I—I thought you were dead!" I sputtered, pulling back and trying to wipe tears from my eyes on my windbreaker. "The School . . . You didn't get a chance to escape!"_

"_I'm here now, aren't I?" he said with a gentle smile, leaning over to peck my forehead. "It's okay, Del; we're gonna be okay."_

_I couldn't help but close my eyes and sigh at his touch. I'd missed him so much . . . I wrapped my arms around him again, burying my face in his neck and exhaling heavily. Derek . . . my Derek . . . was come back to me, as if from the dead since, well, I'd assumed that he was. He rubbed my back, lightly scratching that troublesome spot right between my wings, and I was just content to stay right there with him in that sunny little glade forever._

_But then there was a gunshot. Derek and I both stiffened but, almost instantly, Derek sagged into my arms. I felt blood pooling on his back and couldn't help but shriek. I went to my knees on the ground, him in my arms, trying to stop the bleeding as he softly repeated my name a hundred times. I started sobbing again._

"_Don't leave me, Derek!" I pleaded. "Please! Don't leave me! Derek! _Please!_"_

_He didn't move again. I started to scream at the top of my lungs, holding him tight against me as if that would bring him back. Then I looked up and saw through my tear-blurred eyes that the Director was standing there, a revolver in one hand. Light tendrils of smoke curled from the business end of that pistol, and she wore a sadistic smirk._

"_You thought you could win, Delilah," she sneered, leveling the revolver at me now instead of at the place where Derek's back had been. "How foolish I was to think you'd ever serve me without question. I should have broken you of your will years ago."_

_Then there was another shot. Everything instantly went black._

* * *

Gasping for breath and coughing, I jerked awake, nearly leaping straight up. The minute my eyes popped open, I glanced around and realized that I had absolutely _no_ idea where I was _or_ how long I'd been here. How long was I out? Hours? Days? _Weeks_, even? But before I could freak completely out and start screaming like one of those sissy female sidekicks in certain movies that probably didn't deserve to hit the silver screen (and I'm sure each and every one of you knows one of those), I tried to sit up and move my arm only to have pain shoot up my right shoulder. That was when I remembered what had happened: I'd been beaten to a pulp by the Director's cronies. Then I remembered where I was: I was in Arizona. I was at Max's mom's house, a supposed safe house in which we'd stay long enough for me to recover for the beating I'd taken. Gulping down several deep breaths to try to calm down after that awful dream—it _was_ a dream, right?—I got a good look at myself. I was lying in a queen-sized bed, blankets tugged up to my chin. I was also wearing a _huge_, plain blue tee-shirt that I knew was _not_ mine. I was also bandaged so much that I felt like a mummy; my wing was wrapped up completely and my arm was in a sling, lying uselessly across my chest. What fun. But then I got the weirdest sensation that I had freakin' _tubes_ running up my nose and down my throat. Totally grossed out, I started coughing again, reaching up to see if I did indeed have tubes running through my sinuses. Yep. I sure did. _Ugh._ What was worse, they were hooked up to some oxygen container or other that I didn't think had been there the night I'd gotten here. Apparently Dr. Martinez and Batchelder had thought I needed extra oxygen. Well, maybe I did; I didn't know! After all, I'd been unconscious at the time these things had probably been put in! All I knew was that the tubes tickled and made me feel . . . _icky_. Okay, I was just about to barf. Ohh, if Nudge could've seen me hooked up to that oxygen tank, she would've been freaking out, jumping around, and squealing "Ew, ew, ew, ew, _ew_!" at the top of her lungs.

I'm sure that, by now, you know me pretty well. At least, I can assume that, right? Anyway, you probably know me well enough to know that I don't like being flat on my back for very long. I don't like staying in one place for more than five minutes, especially with that tracker tattoo of mine. Speaking of that, I bet you thought I'd forgotten all about it. Well, I hadn't. In fact, that's one of the reasons why I've kept blaming myself for Derek's death: if I hadn't gone, the tattoo wouldn't have gone, and the Itex jerks would never have known I was coming. _Sigh._

Anyway, rather than ripping the tubing out of my body and hopping up to go see what was happening in this little Arizona household, I just lay there in that soft, warm bed underneath those soft, warm blankets. If it weren't for the fact that I started worrying over how long we'd be able to safely stay here (tattoo, remember?) I probably would've fallen asleep again. I was _very_ comfortable in that bed, primarily because I didn't have to move and subsequently make my arm and shoulder hurt—not to mention my side with its cracked rib. Also, I was getting _plenty_ of oxygen, thanks to that tank, so I was breathing easily. And so, my eyes were half-closed and on their way to one-hundred-percent closed when there was a soft knock at the door. A moment later, it cracked open, and an unfamiliar face peered in. I started to sit up, maybe gather up my strength and attack if she meant harm, but the strange girl just smiled at me.

"Don't bother getting up," she said. "Just rest."

That's when it dawned on me that neither Batchelder nor Iggy—nor the rest of the Flock, for that matter—would let an undercover assassin infiltrate and kill me in my sleep. It also dawned on me that I recognized this girl as the one who'd bounded out to hug Max when we'd arrived. So I relaxed and sank back into the squishy bed, snuggling under the covers and trying not to have a tube-induced gag.

"I'm Ella," said the girl as she walked inside, carrying a towel-covered tray over to the bedside table near me. "I dunno if anybody told you, but I'm Max's sister. Okay, half-sister."

"That information kinda slipped past," I sighed. "I was kinda out of it for a while, y'know?" I paused as she nodded understandingly, setting the tray down. "How long was I out?"

"Not too long," Ella said. "You guys just got here yesterday. Jeb expected you to be unconscious a little longer, but Mom said you'd be up in no time."

"Speed healing," I mumbled. "It's a bird kid thing."

Ella grinned at me in a way that said "Yeah, it's _totally_ cool with me that you're a genetic mutant." I mean, why shouldn't it be? Her half-sister was one, after all. Heck, her entire _house_ was full of us human-avian hybrids. Anyway, she turned toward the tray on the bedside table and lightly lifted one corner of the towel. Immediately, out drifted the luscious scent of fresh, homemade pancakes and real, practically fresh-off-the-hog bacon. I bit my lip to keep from moaning with want. Ella smiled again.

"Mom thought you might be hungry," she explained, and I nodded slightly dazedly as my stomach started to growl.

Then she turned to leave, and I stared at the food for a moment or two before clearing my throat and glancing over at her.

"Um . . . Ella?"

She turned.

"Hm?" Then she saw me, still lying there on two pillows, with the blankets up to my chin and my arm in a sling. "Oh! Oh, okay."

She came over and helped me sit up until I was leaning comfortably against the pillows and the headboard. In all honesty, though, I hated having to rely on someone else for things like this. It annoyed me to no end that I was so very . . . well . . . _helpless_. But I had no choice today, and she got me sitting up straight. I stole another glance at the pancakes—ooh, yummy—before looking down at my immobile right arm.

"Mind cutting that stack for me?" I asked, rather sheepishly.

Okay, somebody remind me to compliment Max on the awesomeness of her sister. Ella just grinned and set about cutting the pancakes into bite-sized chunks that I could eat with one hand rather than two. I watched her for a minute before those tubes started tickling me again. I frowned.

"Can't eat with these," I muttered, reaching up and tugging lightly at them. Ella looked at me, and her eyes widened fractionally.

"Want me to get Mom?" she asked. "She can come take care of those . . ."

"Nope, I've got it," I replied, playing the role of Little Miss Go-Getter as I grabbed a firm hold on those tubes.

And I yanked. And I nearly barfed. Let's just say that yanking plastic tubing out of one's nose isn't _quite_ the pleasantest thing on planet Earth. But they were out—albeit slimy with mucus, saliva, what have you—and I was in a coughing fit. Ella grimaced the whole time, even as I tossed the now-unneeded tubes to one side. Yeah, oxygen's nice, but they need to think up a way to do it without running tubing down peoples' throats.

"Ew," Ella said. I shrugged.

"Yeah, I know. But I prefer breathing air with a little dirt in it."

I exhaled heavily, rubbing at my nose. Ella just shook her head with a grimace of disgust as she continued cutting my pancakes.

"I still think you should've let Mom do that."

"Nah, it's fine," I said, holding back a sneeze. "Those pancakes chopped up yet?"

Ella nodded and passed the tray to me. It was one of those handy little things that have legs on them, so I wasn't balancing a wobbly tray on my knees. However, I had to learn how to eat and otherwise function normally without the use of my right hand. Trust me, it isn't as easy as it sounds. I'm a righty, _not_ ambidextrous. I had to get help from Ella a couple of times to keep from spilling my orange juice. The bacon was no problem, though; I just grabbed it in my left hand and practically inhaled it. Eventually, I gave up trying to eat politely with my fork and used it as a shovel, more or less. Forget table manners; it got the job done! But once I was finished with my breakfast, Ella took the tray and set it back on the bedside table. I rather daintily dabbed at my mouth with my napkin before eyeing a closed door not too far away from me.

"That the bathroom?" I asked.

"Uh huh," Ella replied with a nod. "Need help?"

"Nope," I said, starting to ease my way out of bed only to find that I was sore all over and couldn't move my arm thanks to that darn sling. "Just a clean toothbrush and some toothpaste would be nice."

Ella scampered out to obtain the requested items, taking the breakfast tray with her. I kept pushing my way out of the bed, eventually making it. I disentangled myself from the sheets, stepping over those oxygen tubes as I headed toward the bathroom door. However, it was at that point that the door creaked open again, and I wheeled around, startled. I was about to jump the intruder and give him a severe pounding with my good fist when I realized . . . it was Iggy. He was coming to check on me, make sure I was okay.

"Goodness, Ig!" I sighed. "You almost gave me a heart attack, sneakin' in like that . . ."

He just grinned as he slipped inside, and I saw that he was holding a brand-new toothbrush and a brand-new tube of toothpaste—obviously the items I'd asked Ella for.

"Heard you were lookin' for these," he said.

"Thanks," I sighed, shuffling over and taking them in my hand. Iggy tilted a bit, almost in thought. I looked up at him. "What's up?"

"Hadn't thought you'd be walking around already," he said. "I mean . . . you were pretty beat up. Had me worried."

Aww, he'd been worried? I almost turned into a puddle of mush right there on the carpet as I padded a little closer—shuffled, actually; I couldn't walk too well after having been bedridden—and eased my good arm around his waist. He put both arms around me, his chin resting atop my head. I just sighed and leaned my head against his chest, breathing in his scent—he smelled of soap, laundry detergent, and dryer sheets, with a little sunshine tossed in—and trying not to cry for Derek again. But having Ig hold me reminded me terribly of the dream I'd had and how, in it, Derek had held me before the Director shot him in the back. I couldn't help myself, though, and sniffled. Iggy just gently rubbed my left shoulder before stroking my sloppy hair.

"I miss Derek," I mumbled, clutching at his shirt.

"We all do," he replied softly. "Angel dreamed about him last night and woke up crying."

Angel did? Stoic little Angel had awakened crying after a dream? I almost wondered if it were the same dream I'd had, seeing as how she, well, can read minds and all that . . . Maybe she'd picked up on my dream and it had made her miserable. I decided to ask her about it later—as in, _way_ later, after I was feeling a little more up to snuff.

"They're gonna pay," Iggy went on, tucking me into his chest and rubbing my back. "They're not gonna get away with doing this, okay?"

I nodded feebly, and he walked me over to what had served as my sickbed and sat me down on the edge of it. I glanced over and saw that there was a box of Kleenex on the bedside table, so I reached over and grabbed a handful, blowing my nose and wiping my eyes. Then I just leaned my head against Ig's shoulder, closing my eyes and sighing heavily. It was just so . . . _different_ without Derek in the world—in my life. He was always the person who'd grab me by the shoulders and knock sense into me. He's the reason I didn't kill Max and the others, remember? But because I felt so very prone to tears, I just tried to shove all thoughts containing him to the farthest depths of my mind—for now, anyway. I didn't feel like crying anymore. Besides, I had other, more important things to be worrying about—like my tattoo. I wanted it checked out so I could know if it really did have a tracker chip in it. And Max's mom was supposed to be a vet, right? That meant she could help, right? Besides, I'd heard the stories of Max having some chip or other in her, but her mom got it out. Why not give the woman a chance to go two-for-two, eh?

So, yeah, I decided I'd get to that. But later. Way later. Right now, I was busy. Iggy had his arms around me, and I was pressed tight to his shoulder, feeling very, very . . . okay, _loved_. Yes, loved! And there is absolutely nothing wrong with that because, well, I was severely lacking in any sort of happy emotions right then. So what did I do? I stayed right where I was, adjusting my position just enough until my chin was resting atop Iggy's shoulder and I had my face almost buried in his neck. I felt him embrace me tighter while still being considerate for my bandaged wing, and I heard myself sigh. Rather pathetically, I sighed a little louder when he rubbed between my wings; until then, I hadn't realized there had been a pesky itch forming there. The joys of being a bird-kid—_not!_

Look, if you're expecting teenaged mutant smut, what with the raging hormones and all, then please, peel your eyeballs off the page and put your tongue back in your mouth before you go and trip on it like some klutz. There was no smut to be had, despite the very close physical contact. So there wasn't anything that would make your grandma blush if she caught you reading about it even though Ig kissed my neck and I . . . _Sigh._ I kissed his neck, too. I know, I know: I was—okay, _am_—turning into a big, giant sentimental puddle _again_. But it just, well . . . made me feel important. Like I really was special to someone for a change. Yes, I know: "Aww!" Just do me one favor: when you drool, please don't get it on me. Thank you.

_Anyway_, Ig held me for a long time, rubbing my back and letting me nestle into his shoulder. I even totally forgot that I'd been going to brush my teeth and then try to get on with my life. Maybe I wasn't truly ready to get up. I mean, I'd just had the stuffing beat out of me yesterday; maybe I should've spent a little more time tucked under the covers and recovering. But you know me: stubborn as all get-out and very bad at following orders. Oh well.

So Ig held me, and I buried my face in his neck, closing my eyes and just letting him rock me back and forth, back and forth, until I was almost asleep again. My breathing got slow and even; I felt so comforted and downright _safe_ that I didn't mind falling asleep in what I figured was probably the middle of the day or sometime near it. I was just content to stay there, to forget about all the horrible things that had happened, and I was feeling just _great_ until the bedroom door cracked open.

"Well." It was Max. Talk about poor timing! "Hope I'm not interrupting anything . . ."

"Sure are," I mumbled as I pushed back from Iggy, getting him to release me. I sighed and looked down at my new toothbrush. "Need somethin'?"

"I was gonna see how you're doin' since Ella said you're up and about," she replied. "Also, Mom's going out to the store in a bit, so she wanted me to see if you needed anything."

I started to shake my head before I looked down and realized how ratty I looked. Great. I really hated to make these people go out of their ways for me, especially since I didn't know them. Maybe Dr. Martinez was trying to treat me like her own kid, I dunno, but I was uncomfortable with having to admit to being somewhat helpless.

"Jeans," I sighed. "And a couple new shirts. Maybe . . . uh, undergarments; I dunno. Just somethin' so I don't look like I've been ripped apart. Oh, and root beer."

I honestly didn't know why I spat out "root beer" so suddenly, but I figured it had something to do with the craving that I'd just gotten. Max snickered and Iggy chuckled, but I just shrugged. Yeah, so I wanted root beer. Maybe it'd help me feel better after the major crap-storm I'd just been through. At any rate, Max headed back out to inform her mom of my shopping list, leaving me and Iggy happily alone. Well, okay maybe not happily-happily, but you get the idea. I stood up to go investigate the bathroom of "my" room, and he stopped me by touching my arm. I turned, finding myself looking into his pale eyes and wishing that the little sighted moment I'd given him in San Francisco had lasted longer.

"You gonna be okay?" he asked me.

I sighed; I knew what he was asking. He wasn't meaning _just_ my Eraser-inflicted wounds. He meant my broken heart. I returned to his side, settling back down on the bed and accidentally making the mattress squeak.

"I'm gonna try," I answered softly as I reached for his hand. I didn't want to tell him about the dream I'd had—the dream that had made everything worse for me. He gave my hand a squeeze, turning toward me and gently brushing my hair back.

"I'll tell ya one thing, Del," he said gently. "I'll be here for you. Okay?"

I bit my lip to keep from crying as tears stung my eyes. Derek had said that. I'd been trying not to miss him, but now it was all messed up again because Ig had just told me he'd be there for me and Derek had once said the same thing. I think he recognized what he'd done, though, because he pulled me into his arms again and gently pecked my forehead. I grabbed his shirt in my good left fist and tried to get it together, trying not to melt completely down. Maybe I'd just have to get away by myself sometime to try to sort through this. If my wing worked, I would've flown up to the roof and sat there by myself. Maybe I still would—only rather than flying, I'd just have to climb. At any rate, he rubbed my back again as I took several deep breaths, trying to not have another breakdown. When I thought I could speak without sounding teary, I took another breath and wiped my eyes, murmuring "Thanks" as I got up to head to the bathroom. As I turned on the water to brush my teeth (which is not an easy task when you've only got one decent hand) I heard him get up and leave me in peace. I had to admit, he was sweet. He was treating me nicely, letting me have some time alone to get myself together. I sighed to myself as I finished brushing my pearly whites, then washed my face, then tried to brush my hair with my fingers. Oh well. At least I didn't look half-dead. I still felt like crap, but at least I didn't look it too much.

After a while, I left the bathroom and headed out to see what everyone else was up to. However, I started having second thoughts about moving around because my leg still hurt where I'd been shot, and I ended up limping. Between that limp and my bandaged wing and arm, I looked like I'd been run over by a freight train. And, well, my side still ached, so I figured I'd better just try to take it easy—okay, easier.

Anyway, I reached what seemed like the main living area of the house. On one side was the living room; in there, Ella, Angel, and Nudge were watching a movie or something, and it seemed to me that Gazzy had pestered Fang into playing a board game with him. Ig was sitting on the couch with the Bassett hound, and I found Max sitting in a big leather recliner looking like the mother hen, keeping watch over all her little chicks; Total was at her feet, asleep. There was no sign of Batchelder, but I didn't look too much into it. Maybe he was doing his morning toilette or something. Anyway, around the corner from the living room was the kitchen, and I could still smell bacon, so I shuffled in there to see if there were leftovers that needed eating. Well, I didn't find bacon the minute I walked through the doorway; I found Dr. Martinez. She was sorting through her purse, obviously reorganizing it, and she looked up when I walked in and gave me a very mom-like smile that made my insides feel weird.

"Glad to see you're feeling better, Del," she said, and I wanted to tell her that I _wasn't_ feeling better; I was just too dang _stubborn_ for my own good. Instead, I just nodded. "Did you need something?"

I hadn't thought about it until then, but there _was_ the little issue of my tattoo. Rather ironically, the minute I thought about it again, my chest started to itch, and I scratched at it as I shuffled a little closer. If I didn't tell her about it, at least, then I'd never tell anyone. I mean, she was a vet, right? She might be able to help. After all, remember that little tale I heard about Max's chip? Right. So her mom might be able to help _me_.

"Actually . . ." I started, almost a little hesitantly, "yeah, I do."

She looked at me curiously, and I just tugged down the collar of that baggy, oversized shirt I'd awakened wearing. I knew she'd seen the tattoo when her eyes widened. Funny thing, though; she didn't ask about it. Maybe that was because I didn't give her the chance to ask.

"It's an ID tattoo," I explained, already feeling stupid for needing to ask for help _again_. "It, uh . . . it identifies me as . . . as property of Itex, and . . . and it's got some kinda tracker in it so that they always know where I am."

I stopped there, not saying more lest I spout off something like "And either I or it needs to go so that the others won't be in danger of getting hurt or killed." I mean, if you think about it . . . it was _my_ fault that we lost Derek. If I hadn't been there, they never would've known we were coming. We might've had a chance at blowing the School to kingdom come—permanently. Instead, the Director got away and Derek ended up dead. Yep, my life _sucks_.

Dr. Martinez stared at me and my tattoo in dead silence for a long, long time, and it was getting so awkward in that kitchen that I just about turned around and walked away. I was already planning to go sit on the couch with Iggy and the Bassett hound when Dr. Martinez exhaled heavily and gave me a look that almost said "Oh, you poor, poor thing."

"So you want me to run X-rays, see where the tracker is, and get it out?"

"Yes, please," I said, making sure to sound calm, collected, and _polite_. Sure, I hadn't been raised by Martha Stewart, but this wasn't my house, wasn't my mom, so I had to be nice and act as if I hadn't been raised in a lab. "I mean . . . you did it for Max, right?"

She was again silent for a while, and I bit my lip, wondering if this were a lost cause. Then she came over and put an arm around my shoulder; I flinched at the sudden, unexpected contact but tried to relax.

"I'll do what I can, Del," she said gently. I think she saw how much it was bothering me. "Do you want to go to the clinic now?"

"I'd rather not," I said. "This is gonna sound stupid, I know, but . . . I'd rather go at night. I mean, there's the whole 'cover of darkness' thing that'd prevent people from going 'Hey, who's the weird kid in all the bandages?' Not to mention, well . . ."

I glanced over at my shoulder at my bandaged wing. It was only half-folded because of those bandages; were it completely unfolded, it would be dragging the floor. And wrapped up like it was, it _definitely_ looked like a wing. I shrugged my left shoulder, quirking one corner of my mouth upward in an expression of "And that'd be _awkward_." Dr. Martinez chuckled and _very_ gently squeezed my shoulders.

"Under the cover of darkness, then."

She gave me a smile as she went back to organizing her purse, and I stood there, practically stunned, for a few minutes. That had gone _way_ easier than anticipated, actually. She had been far more understanding than I'd thought she'd be. Oh, who was I kidding? Her daughter was a freaking mutant. If anything, she ought to be uncomfortable around _normal_ humans. 'Cause, I mean, her entire _house_ was full of us human-avian hybrids—a.k.a. genetic _freaks_. But I was left with the sensation of "Okay, she's a cool lady" before I shuffled back out, taking it easy on my leg and side. I made my way to the living room, where I sank heavily onto the couch beside Iggy and the dog. The dog automatically laid her head on my lap, gazing at me with big, sad Bassett eyes—y'know, like the dog on the Hush Puppy-brand shoeboxes. I started stroking her long, floppy ears as Nudge turned to say hello and express her gratitude that I was all right. Even with that, though, I noticed that they all looked _sad_. Another pang of grief and guilt got me right dead-center in my chest as the fact that I'd been responsible for our loss got hammered in harder. I didn't even tell Max that she had a cool mom, as I'd been planning. I just got up a few minutes later and shuffled back for "my" room; and wouldn't you just know it, that Bassett hound followed me. I got myself comfortably stretched out on the bed again, and the Bassett managed to hop up beside me. I stroked her head again, sighing. At least she was quieter than Total. After a minute, I looked down at her, feeling totally miserable as well as in pain. She gazed back at me with those dark eyes, and I sighed, scratching her behind the ears, missing Derek and feeling awful.

"You look as sad as I feel."


	31. 30: Clinic Work

**A/N:** Even because... _y'know_... Derek still belongs to _JaxSolo_. Del belongs to me. Everybody else belongs to James Patterson. And now we shall at last reveal the enigma of Del's mysterious tattoo! Huzzah.

* * *

**Chapter Thirty – Clinic Work**

The day was slow, and I mean ground-to-a-halt slow. If I wasn't resting because I wanted to, then I was resting because somebody told me to, and it was usually Ig, sometimes Max. I just wanted to get moving, be back on the road, in the air, but I really couldn't do anything until I got the chip pulled out of my chest. Already I was working up my courage, trying to get my pain threshold up nice and high as opposed to nice and low. Then again, there would be pain meds, right? Anesthetics or something? So what did I have to worry about? Oh, right: _only_ the fact that a total stranger was going to be digging a scalpel into my chest to rip out a chip probably no bigger than the fingernail of my pinky. Can anybody say _ow_?

I did find out where Batchelder was, by the way, when he came out of hiding just before Dr. Martinez scurried off to the store. He'd been sleeping in a little late; I guess even he was exhausted after . . . well, after everything. But when he came out and got coffee, he gave me a smile that, rather than making me fear him, made me feel a little better. I guess maybe that comfort level was helped by the way Angel leaped up and ran to hug him around the waist. Maybe I could actually trust him completely since the others seemed to. Or maybe I'd always be looking over my shoulder whenever he was in the room. At any rate, it seemed that Dr. Martinez trusted him enough to leave seven bird kids, one normal kid, and two dogs in his care while she ran to the store. I figured she had realized "Hey, I've got seven bird kids in my house, and they eat a lot!" Meh heh.

So we basically had the house to ourselves (not counting Batchelder for supervision, which I felt like we didn't need with Max in command) and were pretty much left to do whatever we pleased. Ella was with us; I found a calendar and found out why: it wasn't a school day. It was, I dunno, Saturday or something. Anyway, the eight of us hung out in the living room around the TV almost all day. I guess my sitting arrangement was the weirdest because, well, I was bandaged to within an inch of my life and nobody allowed me to move around unless my feet fell asleep or I had to . . . er, visit the facilities. So I was sprawled out on the couch, propped up by pillows, and Iggy sat down by my feet. At one point, he even lightly lifted my feet by the ankles and laid them back down across his lap; I think it was to make sure that I really didn't go anywhere without his knowledge. Nonetheless, I rather jokingly warned him that he'd better not tickle my tootsies, and he just gave me a wicked grin. _Sigh._ At any rate, in addition to my being sprawled out on the couch _and_ him, I had both dogs up there with me. Yep. Ella's dog sat at my right side, almost pushing on my cracked rib but not quite. That in itself wasn't too bad, but whenever she got an urge to get up and wander off in search of food, she had to climb over my stomach. Trust me, having heavy doggie feet pressing on your midsection while you're trying to relax isn't exactly _fun_. Anyway, Total was up there, too, only he sat closer to my lap and slept the whole day.

I'm going to be honest with you: I got bored. I don't like it when my surroundings get quiet; it usually gives me a chance to slow down or think or _something_ other than burning off my seemingly constant supply of nervous energy. I didn't like being given the opportunity to think, because my mind almost always wandered to Derek and what I'd done wrong. Of course, I _could_ hope that he'd teleported back to, I dunno, Sacramento or somewhere, but I knew, deep down, that he hadn't. For one thing, he hadn't been feeling well the last time I'd seen him prior to my capture. And for another, he'd gone into an already besieged building; either he'd been captured _again_ and _then_ killed, or he'd gotten caught fighting Erasers and had died when the explosion happened. But enough speculation because it's depressing and I'll make myself cry again if I keep this up. _Sigh_.

So, yeah, I hated it when it got quiet enough for me to start thinking again, so I asked Ella if she had any movies we could watch. She and Nudge went to happily investigate a cabinet chock-full of DVDs, and I was all "Yeah, whatever, just find something noisy and exciting." Then Nudge squealed with delight and yanked out a DVD from the bunch. Max and I sighed simultaneously in an "Oh, brother, not again" fashion when we saw that it was the movie Nudge had fallen in love with back in San Francisco. Back before Derek and I had kissed the second time. Oh, damn it all, there I go again . . . Anyway, if you're curious, we watched that one even though I might not have minded _Bambi_. No, I take that back; I _would_ have minded _Bambi_. I mean, his mother got shot. When you've got a sucky life as is, why watch a movie about somebody else's misfortune? And I just _knew_ that I'd cry if I had to watch that cute little fawn's mama become somebody's venison stew. Poor Bambi.

Good Lord, somebody stop me before I start bawling for no reason. Ahem. So we watched the movie of Nudge's choice, and she launched into silent admiration of the main character even though there was a scene or two at the beginning that made me go "Holy crap, I was _not_ expecting _that_!" In case you're curious, the movie kept my mind off things, and I actually enjoyed it now that I remembered what the plot was _and_ that it wasn't all "spruced up" with Itex propaganda designed for "enhanced" brains like mine.

Dr. Martinez returned about sundown, bearing dozens of sacks of groceries and an armload of pizza. Yes, _pizza_. Apparently she didn't feel like cooking for eight kids any more than I did! I think she'd basically gotten one of everything, because she put the boxes (yes, eight of them) on the counter and said "Pick what you like." So we did. I got stuck with Hawaiian pizza, not that that was necessarily a bad thing. By that time, I was ravenous and didn't really care _what_ was on my pizza as long as it was edible. And I tell you what, that pizza was _definitely_ edible.

I was on my eighth slice when Dr. Martinez called Max into the kitchen for something, and I got a knot in my stomach as I realized that it was just about time for us to scurry down to the vet clinic and see about that tracker doohickey. When Max returned, the sympathetic look she gave me told me that, yep, she now knew about my tattoo. I didn't really like it that I hadn't been the one to tell her, but, then again, I probably wouldn't have told her unless it was absolutely critical. And call me crazy, but this was definitely "absolutely critical." I mean, the Flock's lives were at stake, _my_ life was at stake, and we'd already lost one . . . If I didn't get this taken care of, how many more would we lose because of me? Talk about a load of responsibility. I hate that; it always weighs a lot and it's impossible to shake off.

Anyway, Max handled the situation tactfully, I thought. She said that she and her mom had to go out for something, and then she invited me to come along. I was all nonchalant as I answered "Eh, sure" and got up, much to Iggy and Nudge's adamant protests—much to _everybody's_ adamant protests. They were all "But you'll die!" and I was all "I'm just going outside; people." In a way, I appreciated the concern, but I wanted them to quit worrying about me so much. I _was_ still bruised and relatively beat-up, though; I'll give 'em that. It's just that I wanted this messy little situation taken care of so I wouldn't have to cause any more pain. But my excuse for getting out of the house? A real doozy: "I'm gettin' stir-crazy in here!" Nudge was horrified that I didn't want to stay to watch the movie. I just told her that we'd watch it all over again when I got back. She about passed out from fangirl-y glee when I said that, but I just rolled my eyes and headed out after Max. Dr. Martinez brought up the rear, easing an arm over my good shoulder. She lent me a big coat (as in "too big for bird kids!") to wear so my bandaged wing would be covered. Then the three of us hopped into the family car; it was a station wagon or something, but I dunno because I didn't look too close.

I sat in the front passenger seat while Max took to the back, and even though she was there, I was a nervous wreck. Borderline meltdown, people. Every little jostle in the road made me ache, not to mention that I still wasn't looking forward to being cut on. Ick. Dr. Martinez asked me if I were all right; I lied and said that I was, hiding my nervously twitching hands under the coat. See, I sort of have a nervous tic: if I get really, _really_ anxious, I'll pick at hangnails and whatever. And if I don't have some, then I'll _make_ some! I think Max knew I was upset, though, because she reached up to give my shoulder a squeeze. I just tried not to yelp at every pothole that sent shockwaves of pain through my rib and up my wounded wing. Now you see why I like flying, don't you? You don't have to deal with pain-inducing road conditions.

It felt like that little road trip lasted a lifetime even though I knew it didn't. We finally pulled up at the little clinic, and Max muttered "Long time no see" as we drove into the empty parking lot. The place was like a graveyard; no other cars in sight, and the only lights were the giant street lights in the parking lot. Well, there were some security lights around and inside the building, but what the hey. I'm not here to argue semantics even though I do, and frequently. Dr. Martinez put the car in park and climbed out while Max shimmied from the backseat; I just tried to get out of the front seat without falling flat on my face. I was shifting nervously from one foot to the other as Dr. Martinez got the clinic door unlocked and whatever, and Max told me to chill out just as we walked inside and Dr. Martinez flipped on brighter lights. I just gave Max my best dirty look; she knew how this felt, I knew, and just because this was her mom, I wasn't required to feel better.

Now, before I continue with this tale, I'm sure there's a thing or two that you're absolutely _dying_ to ask. You're probably thinking, "How cliché can this be?! You and Max have similar problems and are getting treated at the same place by the same person! Why is _that_?!" I can answer all of that. One: Itex loves, loves, _loves_ to label their specimens as theirs. They're control freaks. Maybe the Director's even a little OCD, I dunno. But they _love_ tracking devices. And knowing me, I wouldn't be too surprised that I've got one. Ultimate weapon here, hello? Two: Max's mom is the only one available. We were there, she was ready and willing to help. Simple enough. And three: if you were a mutant freak like, say, _me_, and you had a little medical problem, would you _honestly_ want to go to a public hospital and risk undue attention? No? Didn't think so.

So _anyway_, Dr. Martinez led us down the hall to an exam room, the sort in which you'd normally see someone's iffy-feeling dog or ghastly ill cat. But today there were two bird kids, only one of which would be examined. Dr. Martinez said something about getting an X-ray on me, which made me nervous, but I tried to keep my cool because, hey—I'd had _plenty_ of X-rays at the School. But the whole atmosphere of this clinic didn't exactly give me warm, fuzzy feelings. I shot off a quick, silent prayer for strength and courage as Dr. Martinez helped me get settled on an exam table near which was an X-ray machine. She got it set up, moved into place, and then . . .

"Can you take off your shirt, Del?"

I blinked. Say what? I stole a quick glance down; this wasn't my shirt, and I knew it. And I had the definite feeling that there was very little between me and it. I peeked down the collar; nope, nothin'. I gave her a _long_ look.

"You, uh, sure about that?"

She nodded, and I sighed. Sure, it was just us three girls there, but still . . . It's awkward! I mean, one minute you're in the comfort of your clothes, and the next, they want you to get naked and be as comfortable with it as if you're a lifelong member of a nudist colony! _Sigh._ But I really had no choice in the matter, so I started trying to get free. Max helped me finagle my way out of the borrowed jacket before I slipped my left arm free of the shirt beneath. Somehow, I got my upper chest totally clear and the shirt wrapped around my, er, personal, uh, parts, revealing my skinny little shoulders. Skinny, yes, but pretty muscular, I guess. I mean, I'm not, like, a bodybuilder with wings; I've just worked out a _lot_. Training, remember? Learning how to fight and kill? Whatever.

But in addition to my shoulders laid out under the fluorescent lights, there was my pale skin (I never did get any Cali sun) and my tattoo. That thing looked so _huge_ against my chest; its bold, dark lines against my pale flesh practically screamed "Here I am, Itex! Come and get me!" I sighed, shifting uncomfortably on the exam table. The quicker this would be over with, the better. Then I could get back and find out for the tenth time how that movie ended. There's nothin' wrong with enjoying a good butt-kickin' movie with some good fights. But I just bet that I'm off-topic again, huh? Yep, thought so.

So Dr. Martinez got the X-ray thingy situated over my chest before she and Max left the room. I sat perfectly still; I knew the drill. Apart from the sound of the machine taking the image, it was dead silent in there. Even after the X-ray was taken, I was left alone; I figured Dr. Martinez was getting a print-out of the scan or something. But I didn't like the silence, didn't like the cold, didn't like the white walls. Chill bumps speckled my arms, shoulders, and upper chest as I waited, and I would've rubbed my shoulders if it weren't for the fact that one arm was worthless and the other was holding up my shirt to keep my, uh, gifts from nature from showing. _Awkward . . ._

Anyway, awkwardness aside, I sat there in silence for a few minutes, telling myself that the Director was _not_ about to pop out of thin air and shoot me between the eyes. I had just gotten myself relatively calm when the door opened again. I nearly leaped off the table to get into a combat pose before Dr. Martinez poked her head around the corner. She came inside fully, Max trailing after her, and I tried to get relaxed again before they noticed how nervous they'd made me, leaving me in there all by myself. I expected her to give me a reassuring smile of "I know where it is now; let's rip 'er outta thar!" but . . . no. She looked at me kind of inquisitively—that kind of look where you wonder if they're wondering "Is she leading us on a wild goose chase?" That made me anxious, and I shifted on the exam table. Then I broke the silence.

"Can I, uh, put my shirt back on now?"

She nodded as she brought the X-ray over, and I wrangled and struggled my way back into that shirt, almost getting myself out of breath just because it's hard to pull on a shirt with only one usable arm. Max came over to help me, and I muttered my thanks just about the time that Dr. Martinez shoved the X-ray in my face. I glared at her as I leaned back to focus on it. That was my chest, sure enough . . . but I didn't see anything that looked remotely like a microchip. I glanced up at her, brows furrowed in confusion. Max had seen it too, obviously, because now she was looking at me as if she thought I'd lied. Yeah, like I'd lie just so I could walk into this refrigerator of a vet clinic and strip my shirt half off.

"Uh," I began, "where's the chip?"

"That's what I was about to ask you," she replied. "Del, I looked at this scan a hundred times. I enlarged it on the computer and looked at it another hundred times there. Whatever chip you thought you had . . . well, it doesn't exist."

"Whaddaya mean, 'doesn't exist'?!" I barked. "She said it was there! Take another scan; I don't care! Maybe it's somewhere else in me, but wherever it is, I want it found, and I want it _out_."

Dr. Martinez sighed and got the X-ray machine set up again, laying me down on the exam table to take a full-body scan. I didn't know how she was going to get an X-ray machine designed for dogs and cats to take a scan of my entire body, but she was able to. Once again, she stepped out, took the X-ray, and came back a little later with a print-out. She held it up to the light, shaking her head. I clenched my fists so hard that my knuckles cracked.

"Del, there's no chip," she said, looking ardently at me. "It's not implanted in your chest, arms, legs, stomach, wings, _anything_. Maybe you were told you had a chip, but there's not one there."

This fact was having a hard time working its way through my brain. But those two X-rays were pretty conclusive. There really was no chip. Then it sank in: the Director had _lied_. _Again!_ And I'd fallen right into her ruse! And I will attempt to put my feelings as succinctly as possible: I felt like a damned _moron_. Not to mention a blind, stupid, clueless idiot! _Arg!_ She'd lied, I'd believed her, and now I was shivering in a vet clinic because I _had_ listened to her! Yeah, yeah, I know: "Del, you _idiot_!" The title has been duly earned. _Sigh._

I didn't say anything about the chip—or lack thereof. I couldn't muster up a "Gee, well, at least I don't have _that_ to worry about!" I just thanked Dr. Martinez for taking the time to put up with me, hopped off the table (though "slid" would be more accurate), and headed for the car, fuming inside. That Director . . . Ooh, I'd have her head for taking Derek _and_ for constantly lying to me! Not to mention that one of the things that annoys me more than anything else is how I was tricked by her countless times and didn't have the foresight to see another trap coming. I warn you now: the next time I see her, she will be _dead_.

We got silently in the car to head back to the house; this time, I was in the backseat while Max rode shotgun with her mom. I guess I was in the back because I didn't want to feel the glances that were going to come in my direction. Not to mention the fact that I wanted to be angry in private. I'd been lied to _again_ and was _not_ happy about that, not one jot! Therefore, I just wanted everyone to stay _out_ of my way and leave me the hell _alone_! Yes, this is me being angsty. Again. _Sigh._

So we drove back to the house, and I stared out the window the entire time, watching the dark Arizona landscape whiz past and watching the occasional streetlight make creepy shadows on the highway. The whole time, I tried not to think about what had just happened and how I'd just realized that I'd been once again duped by the Director. I wanted to pretend that it had never happened, that all of this was a dream, that I'd just wake up and be in San Francisco, and that Derek would be there and we'd all be having a great time . . . But _no_. Life had to officially _suck_, and it was still my fault. I guess I could say that, if I'd gone on with my mission, then everything would be all right. But look at how many people I would've hurt, and even if I'd done my job, I had no assurance that I'd be spared anyway. Who knew? Maybe the Director would've said, "Oh, thanks for getting rid of the last of the Mark Ones, dear, but now it's time for you to take a nice, long _nap_." Yeah, a nap in which the sleeping pill bears uncanny resemblance to a freaking _bullet_. _Sigh._

When we got back to the house, I got out of the backseat as fast as I could, giving Dr. Martinez her coat back and mumbling something that, had I been in a better mood, would've sounded like "Thank you." She gave me a squeeze on the good shoulder as I just stormed past, heading for the side of the house. I passed the front door long enough to hear Nudge ask "Where's Del?" and Max reply with "Getting some air." Yeah. Getting some air. Good goin', Max. I rolled my eyes as I headed around to the side yard. I was going to exercise my first plan: camp out on the roof. I swore colorfully at my bad, wounded wing before putting my foot on the first chunk of lattice I came to. Thank God that Dr. Martinez was growing climbing roses; I decided I'd try not to crush them if I could help it.

So I stuck my foot in the lattice and grabbed hold with my good hand, pressing my bandaged arm to my stomach and gritting my teeth as I climbed up. Yeah, I've had months of physical training, and yeah, I can do stuff that some humans would pass out after just _thinking_ about, but when you've been beaten to a pulp and reduced to only one hand, climbing gets hard. But I managed. I climbed up slowly but surely, straight up the wall, thankful the entire time that the lattice was bolted to the brick.

When I reached the top, I was out of breath, and sweat had broken out in a thin layer on my forehead. I sighed and rubbed it off with the back of my hand before practically flopping onto the roof. I lay there on my side for a minute before gingerly rolling over onto my back, staring up at the sky. I gazed up at the pitch-black night sky speckled with twinkling little stars, watching them, trying to count them, wishing I could snap out my wings and soar up to meet them, wishing I could touch the moon. It was hard to watch those stars and _not_ feel miserable about being stuck on the ground because of my wing. It wasn't fair that I had to lose my flight, too. Sure, maybe it was temporary; maybe the wing would heal and I'd fly again. Maybe it wasn't even as bad as I thought it was. Or maybe I'm just trying to be optimistic.

I lay there, left arm folded back under my head to support it, peering up at the stars. A shooting star flashed across the black, and I instantly launched into that time-honored tradition of wishing on a star. So I closed my eyes and mumbled under my breath, "I wish that life would be good again." When I opened my eyes, I wasn't expecting a sudden miracle. I wasn't even expecting my wing to be inexplicably and unexpectedly healed. I just lay there, staring up, up, up, wondering if God's view of the heavens was as good as mine. I thought I could even see a planet off in the distance—a single point of light brighter than most of the other stars. A nighttime breeze blew gently across the roof, ruffling my shirt and the exposed feathers of my good wing. Sighing, I let myself sit up, slowly and gingerly, as I glanced over my shoulder at that bandaged right wing. I frowned at it as if a "death ray" glare would frighten it into submission, but then I noted a place where the gauze was loose. So what did I do? Precisely. Oh, you know me far too well!

I grabbed the loose bit and tugged; the bandaging started coming loose. I kept tugging, not caring about what I was doing because I figured that Dr. Martinez could just rewrap the wing if something went wrong. Slowly, and with much finagling, I unwound the bandages from my wing and practically ripped them off. It felt . . . freeing, sort of, to not be held back by the bandages any longer. Then I looked down at the wad of gauzy bandages in my hands; they had dried blood on them in a couple of places. Reaching over my shoulder, I prodded at the wounds. They were sore, yeah, but healing. At least, the surface wounds were. I didn't know how bad the injuries to my wing were; maybe they were bad enough that I, like Derek, would have to undergo months of endless, horrible therapy just to be able to get myself off the ground. Let's face it, after all: nobody can fly with just one wing.

I noticed one thing about my wing: it hurt. It wasn't sharp, biting pain as it had been when it'd first been injured; it was more like a dull, throbbing ache that seemed as if it were getting stronger over time. My first thought? "Shoot. I'm gonna need aspirin." But my second thought? "Hey, that means the nerves aren't totally dead!" That _is_ how it goes, right? If there's pain, the nerves are in good shape? Something like that? Anyway, I tried to fully extend both wings, to shake them out and get the feathers back in place, but only one wing—the left one—obeyed. The right wing refused to move, and pain shot up my right shoulder, leaving me gritting my teeth as I swore under my breath. Muscle injuries. Not good. That meant that, until the muscles controlling my wing healed completely, I'd be grounded anyway. _Sigh._

So I started sort of moping as I got my wing put back into place, trying to get it as motionless against my back as it had been with the bandages. But then I heard a low _fwup_,_ fwup_ and nearly screamed in fright and surprise. My wings, on reflex, tried to rapidly snap out, but hot, burning twinges once again shot up my arm like spider lightning. I hadn't meant to, but I yelped in pain and practically doubled over, reaching back to try to clutch my shoulder. Tears stung my eyes in the same way that hot pain stung my wing as I tried not to swear, hissing in sharp breaths, waiting for the stabbing to subside. But then a shadow settled over me, and I looked up to find Iggy landing carefully on the roof, inching over to me, feeling his way across the shingles. He got to me and almost instantly stretched out his hands for my wing. I didn't stop him—though I wanted to, because it hurt!—as he touched it, evidently looking for blood or gaping wounds or something.

"You tryin' to fly again?" he asked me after a silent minute. I barked a laugh that ended in a grimace of pain.

"Yeah, right," I snorted, hissing in a breath as his fingertips glided over the recently created bare patches on my wings. "Yeah, I was just tryin' to see if the thing would even open."

". . . no, huh?"

"Dead on."

I tried to laugh but failed, still hunched over. The pain was gradually ebbing away; it didn't hurt as much now. Iggy patted my forearm before gently stroking the back of my hand.

"Just gotta let it heal, I guess," he murmured.

I don't know why, but when he said that, something inside me . . . just snapped. It was like a stick on dynamite had been lit in the very depths of my heart because I just exploded. It started with a sarcastic chuckle that increased to some weird combination that was half-laugh and half-sob. I think I startled Ig with that, but at that point, I didn't care. Then I started to speak in a mocking tone that eventually turned to shrieking.

"Sure. Heal. As if it'll heal when I can't even get the damn thing to _move_! And here I thought life would get better after we pulled Derek outta the School. But _noooo_. I had to stay behind, bring up the rear, take too much time! If I'd moved faster, those Erasers never would've caught up! I never would've gotten shot, never would've gotten captured! Always my fault!"

Iggy tried to calm me down, but I kept going. I was too worked up now. I was breathing hard, and my head was spinning and pounding. I ached all over now, shaking with rage.

"It's always my fault!" I screeched, pounding a fist into the roof. "First it was Der's programming, then it was mine, then it was that stupid chip I thought I had but turns out I don't . . . And it's my fault he's dead! If I'd come up with a better plan, thought it out, then executed it exactly, he'd still be here! If I'd moved faster, thought quicker, I wouldn't have gotten captured! See, it's _still_ my fault, any way you look at it! And if I hadn't gotten captured, you wouldn't have had to come for me! My wing wouldn't be crap, and Derek wouldn't have died! So it's _my_ fault he's dead! Do you hear me?! _Mine!_ My fault and my fault alone! Nobody else's! I should've died instead; the lot of you should've just left me there, should've let me die!"

By that time, I wasn't just venting my anger. I was actually screaming _at_ Iggy, not just within earshot of him. I didn't realize what I was doing, how I was hurting him with my rage, until I saw a look of pain and hurt come over his face. Then it seemed like I suddenly snapped out of it, and I sat there on the roof, shaking, eyes wide and stinging with tears. I realized just who I was hurting by being so angry when he started scooting away from me, looking wounded. I realized _why_ he looked so upset, too: I'd just shouted that he and the others should've left me to die. No doubt he _never_ wanted to let me die. But I was so overwhelmed with guilt for screaming at him that I started taking sputtering breaths and scrabbling across the roof, reaching for him.

"Ig, no, please, I—I'm sorry, I didn't mean . . ."

I trailed off as all my bottled-up tears came spilling out, and I threw myself into his arms, begging forgiveness for screaming. Almost instantly, it was given to me in the form of a tight bear hug as he let me sob into his shirt. The interesting thing was this: the longer I cried, the better I felt. Eventually, I was all sobbed out and just stayed there, holding tight. After a while, he asked me about the chip I'd babbled about, and I actually managed to stay calm as I explained. He seemed relieved to know that it didn't exist even though I wasn't entirely comforted. It was like there was some part of me that didn't believe the X-rays even though they'd been pretty darn convincing. Me and my stupid trust issues. _Sigh._

Oddly enough, Iggy didn't freak completely out over the whole chip issue. Then again, maybe that was because he'd heard first that I didn't have it in the first place. But he just held me, letting me rest my head against his shoulder. So I did. I had the side of my face against his shoulder, staring out across the Arizona landscape as I traced slow circles on his shirtsleeve.

"Why do things have to change?" I asked after almost twenty minutes of silence. "Why can't things go back to how they were?"

He sighed and shifted, adjusting his hold on me, not answering immediately. That was when I half-realized that I'd probably shot off my mouth too fast again. Do remember that, if things went back to how they'd been, he would have his sight back. But since I only _half_-realized this, I didn't jump to apologize. He sighed again, gingerly rubbing my aching right wing.

"I dunno, Del," he replied finally. "Could be we're supposed to learn from screw-ups or something equally philosophical."

Learn from screw-ups. And what was I supposed to learn from hurting everyone around me, getting people killed? I once saw a movie (or maybe it was a TV show; I can't remember) in which one of the characters defined the word _hero_ as "someone who gets other people killed." Guess that made me a hero, then—a big damn one. Yeah, okay, maybe I'd heal. Eventually. But right now, I still had raw wounds—and I don't mean physically. I mean, it was only yesterday that—I swallowed hard, breaking off in my thoughts as all those awful memories came flooding back for the umpteenth time. Biting back yet _more_ tears, I turned to bury my face in Iggy's shoulder. He just reached up and gently stroked my sloppy-as-ever hair.

"One day," I managed, trying not to let my voice quiver too hard and failing miserably, "one day, when I'm . . . when I'm . . . _dead_ . . . and I get up to the pearly gates . . . I'm gonna find Derek. And I'm gonna tell him . . . I'm sorry."

I think Ig realized then what I was trying to say: I blamed myself for it. And why shouldn't I? I, little miss go-getter, had basically spearheaded the entire thing. But we've been over this; I don't need to cover it again. Besides, it'd spare me pain if we just agreed that you understand where I'm coming from. Anyway, Ig hugged me a little tighter, being careful of my bum wing.

"Don't blame yourself," he murmured. "It's not your fault. Don't ever say that."

I started to protest but feebly gave up, instead resting my chin on his shoulder and staring out behind him. We didn't say anything else as we sat there; I just loosely snaked my arms around his waist to keep from toppling over. My mind was reeling as I gazed out across the horizon so far away and so . . . invisible. So much had happened, literally overnight . . . My life was one wild whirlwind once again. Derek was gone, I couldn't fly, the Director was still out there . . . And you thought homework was bad. Okay, I guess it is, but it's not like Max's goal of saving the world or my goal of surviving one more day. It's not like a daily battle between life and death. Ain't my life just grand? _Sigh._

After a little while, Ig started humming under his breath some impromptu lullaby or other. I couldn't help but listen, and I noted a few notes from the score of "Nudge's movie" in there. That made me smile, if only faintly; if anybody would've been able to notice a movie's music, it would be Iggy. I figured he was just mixing up a bunch of songs that he already knew in a musical hodgepodge, but I didn't care. It sounded good, and I was so exhausted that it started putting me out. Even despite my raging thoughts, my eyelids drooped and sagged until they closed completely. I was still half-awake despite the heavy lids, but eventually his soft humming sounded far away, like I was standing on one side of a canyon and he on the other. Then it happened: I dozed off, chin still resting on his shoulder. I had opened my eyes one final time before falling asleep there on Dr. Martinez's roof, and the last thing I saw was the huge, white moon shining serenely in the dark Arizona sky.


	32. 31: Being Grounded Sucks

**A/N:** Oh, my gosh, my readers! I'm SO sorry this has been over two months coming! I'll try harder, I promise! Okay, so... Max Ride belongs to James Patterson, Del belongs to me, Derek (whatever mentions he may get) belongs to JaxSolo.

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-one – Being Grounded Sucks **

I woke up the next morning feeling like I should go back to sleep. Ever had that happen, where you wake up after getting the proper amount of sleep, yet you feel like you need more? Yeah. That's the feeling I had. It was so bad that I ended up closing my eyes again and snoozing a little more until I felt Iggy shift and move . . . beneath me? That was when I jerked awake to find myself coiled atop Iggy's chest and stomach like a cat on a warm, sunny windowsill. He was sprawled out beneath me on his back, wings spread out across the roof as the feathers began to be warmed by the rising sun's rays. I slowly, carefully sat up, peering down at him. He looked so . . . so peaceful in the sunrise. His shaggy, strawberry-blond hair was all mussed up, flopping this way and that. His wings were kind of angled up, almost as if they were about to form some kind of protective arch against the sun's powerful rays. You know those old fighter planes with the folding wings, the Corsairs? Yeah, that's what he sort of looked like. But he just . . . Goodness, how to describe it? It was like he seemed so _innocent_ when he was asleep, despite all the crap that life had dealt him. I'm not saying that he was adorable in a physically attractive way at the time; he was adorable in an "Oh, my gosh, he is _so_ cute!" sort of way. Y'know, like somebody might talk about a puppy. And I couldn't help it when I reached over and brushed some hair out of his face. Utterly adorable, him, at that point.

I slid off his chest as quietly as I could, shaking out my left wing. The right one was still iffy, and that bugged me. But, being stubborn as I am, I tried to straighten it out anyway. It budged, just a bit, but it still ached and made me bite my tongue to keep from uttering some nasty—and quite angry—four-letter words. I think Ig heard me up and about, though—oh, who am I kidding; of _course_ he heard me, what with his super-sharp hearing!—because he stirred, his pale blue eyes blinking open. He sat up on his elbows, looking drowsy. I managed a chuckle to hide my pain.

"Hey, sleepyhead," I said. "Have a nice nap?"

He didn't answer me at first. Instead, he turned his head from side to side, evidently listening to his surroundings. Then he touched the area around him, frowning just a tiny bit.

"We stayed up on the roof all night?" he asked, sounding sleepy.

"Yup," I nodded. "Guess we both kinda dozed off."

I decided not to say something like "And oh, by the way, did you know that I was asleep _on top of_ you?" Because, honestly: that would make a really, _really_ awkward situation. I didn't need Max making assumptions, thanks. Besides, if we'd done anything worth making assumptions about, I assumed that anybody in the house at the time would've probably heard it and _still_ be blushing. I just hoped nobody assumed anything scandalous about me and Ig because, well, you know what they say about "assume": "It makes an ass out of u and me." (And if you _had_ to know, yes, I'm still a virgin and damn proud; I'll give it up when I get good and ready, which ain't now.)

_Anyway_, all thoughts of potentially scandalous assumptions aside, I went back to inspecting at my wing, trying to make it move, flex, do everything it used to. The only trouble with that, though, was that it just . . . _wouldn't_. Obviously, Ig heard my struggling and my angry muttering, because he slid across the roof to my side.

"Let me feel," he said, holding out his hands. I sighed and turned my right side toward him.

"Dunno what you're gonna be able to accomplish," I said. "If it hasn't worked for me yet . . ."

"Give it a little time," he replied, gently taking the wing and beginning to rub it. Yep, wing massage. Ahh . . .

He wasn't rough with my wing, not at all. He didn't touch it where it was particularly sore; his long, skinny fingers just prodded gently at the tight, knotted muscles, trying to get them to relax. I ended up hissing out pained breaths and muttering "Ow, ow, ow, _ow_!" as he poked around on my wing because, well, it hurt! Trying to massage really tight muscles is _painful_! Ig just apologized and moved on to another spot whenever I basically said "That _hurts_, dammit!"

"Give it a little time, right, okay," I mumbled after a while in response to his sagely advice. "At the rate I'm healing, you'd think I _didn't_ have a healing power."

"You only got hurt a couple days ago," he replied. "Back when Fang got himself sliced to ribbons, he wasn't exactly up moving around the day after."

"Yeah, well," I mumbled grouchily, "I've gotten the impression that it takes a lot to knock him off his feet."

We sat silently for a few more minutes, Ig rubbing my wing between his hands . . . and then I suddenly got an idea. What I'd said a few moments before was just now triggering something in my brain. I _did_ have a healing power, after all! I _could_ make myself well and move on! I was so suddenly excited by this that I clapped my hands, startling Iggy and sending a few painful shockwaves up my right shoulder. I ignored them, though, because I'd soon be well and a little pain now didn't matter!

As Ig asked me what was going on, what was happening, I pressed my hand to my side with the cracked rib and thought about it feeling better, feeling pain-free and unbroken . . . and a few moments later . . . voila! My side was better and I could breathe without pain. Ahh, it felt so _good_! Then and only then did I explain to Ig what I was doing, that I was going to make myself better and then we'd be able to go give the Director her comeuppance. He seemed eager, too, because, well, I think he remembered San Francisco. I remembered it too, of course, and I wondered if I could build up my healing power to be able to restore his sight. But right now . . . right now, I had to restore my _flight_.

I went around, touching all the wounded parts of me and thinking thoughts of them all healing rapidly, which they did. All was going quite well, and I was getting steadily more excited over the prospect of getting back my flight. And then . . . the grand test. Iggy helped me stretch out my bad wing, and I bit back yelps of pain as I reached back over my shoulder to touch it. I could, just barely, and I squeezed my eyes shut to try to fix it . . . only to find myself exhausted. I barely healed the cuts and scrapes on my shoulder and got nowhere _near_ the wounded, scarred muscles—the true problem behind my lost flight. A dismayed little squeak came out of me as my hand fell limply to my side and I just sat there. You see, that was the problem with having a power I knew nothing about: I knew none of its limitations.

You have _no_ idea how frustrated and angry I was right then; I was angry enough that I probably could've beat my fists into my chest and screamed like a madwoman. Ig caught on to my despair when he reached out to touch my wing and found that it was still as scarred and wounded as it had always been. He didn't say anything at first, though; I think he'd learned that saying "It'll be okay" didn't do me any good. I swear I'm built backwards because, when someone says "Oh, it'll be okay, honey!" I have an undeniable urge to wheel around, punch them in the face, and scream "You _liar_!" And, well, I'd say you know me pretty well by now, so you no doubt know how hard I can punch and how loud I can scream. _Sigh._ So anyway, I sat there, miserable, hopeless, the works, and Ig eased an arm around my waist, pulling me closer. I sighed, leaning my head against his shoulder.

"Well, this officially sucks," I muttered.

"Maybe it just has to recharge or something."

"Maybe, but how am I supposed to know how long _that'll_ take! This isn't Hollywood, Ig; there aren't stunt people that get up and go wash off the fake blood when the director yells 'Cut!' This is reality, and for all I know, I'm gonna go through life with a wing that won't fly."

I felt all choked up when I said that, and I started to wonder if this were how Derek had always felt before he'd healed. I swallowed hard; I didn't want that fate, though. I didn't want to be stuck groundside for months or years of my life. And for all I knew, my little healing power was a very temporary thing with little strength; for all I knew, I'd just used it all up, never to have more of that same power. I just . . . I didn't know how I'd survive this. It was only worsened when I heard a red-tailed hawk screech in the morning sky, and I looked up to watch him wheel about the blue, banking and diving, thoroughly enjoying himself. I swallowed hard, refusing to let myself cry. I silently prayed that little serenity prayer that's so popular on inspirational merchandise in Christian bookstores.

_God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and wisdom to know the difference._

And then I glanced skyward for a moment, looking at the hawk, then at the clouds beyond. I kept gazing up even as I added another couple lines—these of my own creation—to the prayer.

_Please send me a double helping of courage, Lord. I don't need it for accepting stuff I can't do anything about; I need it just for getting through today. I don't know what happened. I used to be brave, then Derek died, and it's like I turned into a loser. Not to mention I don't know what I'll do if my wing doesn't heal. It'd be like . . . like dying. Help me . . . help me be strong._

I murmured "Amen" under my breath, feeling a little better just by getting that off my chest. Ig lightly squeezed by shoulder.

"Del? You okay?"

"Just praying," I said. "So, yeah . . . I hope so."

He gave me a smile as he shimmied down off the roof. I followed suit, climbing to my feet, grateful that everything except my wing was feeling better. But I was still feeling like my wing ought to be healed, so guess what I stupidly did. I turned my back and let myself freefall off the roof. It wasn't a far fall, so I expected to survive, but I also expected my wings to suddenly and miraculously catch me. Well, the good wing snapped out to try to catch me, and the other one tried, but I felt the muscles yank and stretch, maybe even tear. Talk about a serious _OW FREAKING OW_ moment. But the moment before I hit the ground, I ended up getting caught. My breath whooshed out with a definite "Oof!" sound and I looked over to find Iggy clutching me . . . and scowling.

"Del, you _idiot_," he muttered.

"Thanks for the news flash, Captain Obvious," I sighed.

"So when you don't get what you want, you kill yourself?"

I stared at him, insulted that he'd think that as I scrabbled out of his arms. And then I hit him. It wasn't too hard—not like I punched him in the nose or anything—but I whacked his shoulder hard enough to make it sting and maybe bruise.

"No, I was _not_ trying to kill myself!" I barked. "If you must know, I was _trying_ to fly again!"

"Let it heal, Del," he said with a sigh. "It won't heal faster if you keep hurting it."

"Is it too much to hope for a miracle, though?" I was beginning to get angry—yes, at Ig—and couldn't help myself. "I _want_ to fly again; I don't _want_ to be stuck on the ground for the rest of my life; I don't _want_ the fate Derek was stuck with for a good portion of his life; and I decidedly do _not_ want people thinking I'm trying to commit suicide when I'm _trying_ to recover!"

That was it. I turned on heel and stormed off across the yard, eventually breaking into a flat-out run, fists pumping at my sides and chest heaving. There were some woods a fair distance away from the house, so I ran there. I could hear Ig shout "Del, I didn't mean it like that!" but ignored my gut feeling that I ought to turn around and go back. I just ran a little faster, and eventually, his voice faded to silence. So much for the serenity, courage, and wisdom I'd prayed for not five minutes prior.

It was a nice little grove of trees, and I went to the very back of it before daring to pick out one to sit in. It was a tall, lanky pine that I finally picked, and I worked my way up the rough, sap-oozing bark to a nice, strong branch a dozen or more feet off the ground. My plan was to sit there, pout, and be all-around grumpy for a day or two, then grudgingly return to the house. From my perch, I could keep an eye on the Martinez house, and I could see that Iggy had gone on inside. Well, fine. He could just go inside and see what I cared. Think I was committing suicide, will he . . . _Fine._ I'd just sit here and snuggle my tree and end up smelling like pine.

So I sat there, eyes closed and arms wrapped around the tree, rather enjoying the peace and quiet and ignoring my throbbing wing for maybe . . . ten minutes. Next thing I knew, there were footsteps in the wood and someone calling my name. My heart sank. Crap; it was Max. I just stayed silent, pulling my feet up onto the branch so that she didn't look up and see the Converse sneakers I was borrowing from Ella. But she was persistent.

"Del, if you don't tell me where you are, I'm going aerial, and I _will_ find you that way."

_Grumble mutter sigh._ I let my feet hang back down but didn't release my hold on "my" tree. I didn't want to be found, but if she were going to be a butt about it, then fine.

"Up here," I muttered. "In the tree."

"Details, please," she snorted. "There are two-freaking-dozen trees just within a very short radius."

I peered down to get a sense of my surroundings and found that she was right beneath me, looking around, hands on her hips. _Sigh._ I released my tree embrace. The uber-environmentalists would have _loved_ me for that little lapse into tree-hugging; what would be next, dirt-worshiping? Anyway, sarcasm aside, I glanced down at Max.

"Look up."

She did, and she saw me sitting there on my limb. Her brown eyes frowned at me, and I scowled back, but the next thing I knew, she'd snapped out her wings and fluttered up to my level. And then she went and made it worse by sitting down right beside me.

"I didn't exactly ask for company," I grumbled.

"Tough. It's time for a little chat."

Oh, _great_. "Little chat" generally meant "big, fat lecture." She had this "Sit down and shut up because I mean business" tone to her voice, and I glared at her. She glared right back at me, folding her arms. I mimicked her posture, tucking my legs under the limb to keep from falling unexpectedly.

"So I heard you blew up at Ig."

"Literally heard or figuratively heard?"

"In this case, literally. When you pitch a tantrum, you're not very quiet about it."

"Tantrum—?!" I half-leaped off that limb, fists clenched and eyes narrowed.

She just gave me a long look-with-a-capital-_L_. A _special_ Look. A Max-exclusive Look. It was one of those looks that made me simply want to haul off and punch her right in the mouth. Yeah, let's see how much the almighty Maximum Ride would enjoy a bloody lip. So I hauled back, fist clenched, but out shot her hand, and she grabbed my wrist and squeezed _hard_.

"Yes, _tantrum_," she said finally, still squeezing my wrist. "You're supposed to be seventeen, but you're acting like you're _six_. _Angel_ acts more mature than you, and she's only _ten_. To use the old cliché, _you_ are acting your shoe size and not your age."

"Oh, go frack off already. I don't need this lecture."

"Actually, you do. You blow up at Ig when he gets worried about you, you blow up at me for trying to have a simple conversation . . ."

"You have _no_ idea what this is like!" I snapped, wrenching my wrist free of her grasp and jabbing a thumb at my shoulder. "You don't know what it's like to be grounded like this, what it's like to try to take off only to find that you _can't_! And you _certainly_ don't know what it's like to have to wake up in the morning to the realization that you basically killed your best friend!"

"Oh, get over yourself, Del," she sighed, shaking her head. "Yeah, Derek died, and that really sucks; we all agree on that. But do you think that you're the only one he left behind? You think you're the only one affected by it? Angel _cried_; that's how much it affected _her_, and she's just one of us. The only person who's probably the least bit _happy_ about the whole debacle is the Director, and she probably hates it because his dying was a waste of company capital! But this isn't about Derek being dead; it isn't about whatever little romance you had going; it isn't about _you_. It's about something bigger than you and me combined, about stopping the people who did this to us—_all_ of us."

She paused and eyed me as if waiting for a reaction. She didn't get one. I didn't want to give her the satisfaction of seeing me crack even though I was beginning to feel a whole lot less solid on my whole anger issues thing. She'd found a chink in my armor, so to speak. I didn't make eye contact with her, just stared out across the tree line. After a moment, she sighed and went on.

"You're so full of yourself and your problems that you don't understand how Iggy feels, do you?" Another pause, this one for dramatic effect, probably. Or maybe she was trying to let her words sink in, give me a chance to think. "You haven't noticed how much he cares about you, have you? Yeah, yeah, I get it: he's the blind one, he blows up stuff, he cracks jokes, he doesn't have any really deep emotions. In case you never noticed, he does. And he usually spills them to _you_. I've seen him talk to you about serious stuff more than he's talked to me or Fang. He really cares about you, Del; that much I've noticed. You think I didn't notice what you did for him in San Francisco, how you gave him his sight back just for a minute, but oh yeah, I did. In fact, I think he's actually very close to _loving_ you."

I almost froze at that, feeling my armor of anger get a few more chinks in it. Great. This was going just _swell_. But what could I say? The thought that he might have fallen hard for me made me feel flattered and guilty all at once, not to mention unworthy. It was like he cared for me when I didn't even deserve it, being something of—okay, a _huge_ jerk. Ig, loving _me_? It was unlikely, improbable, and . . . and _wonderful_ at the same time. I almost felt tears spring to my eyes but refused to let them fall. I wouldn't—_couldn't_—cry, not now. Max gave me a sideways glance before she sighed and kept going.

"Y'know, he's always worried about you," she said. "Back when you got shot, on the way to San Francisco? You should've heard him after you got picked up. He didn't say it except once, but he never liked that we'd left you even though, y'know, you'd asked. And he had this look like he was wondering if you were okay."

I swallowed hard, but she kept pushing on.

"And when your little programming thing went off and you passed out? He and Derek basically argued over who'd sit with you until you came around, and then they _both_ ended up next to you."

I couldn't help but smirk at that; the idea of those two fighting over me . . . it was still hilarious even though . . . _yeah_.

"And then after you got the crap beat out of you, back at the School?"

I shuddered involuntarily. Max noticed but didn't say anything, continuing despite my evident discomfort.

"When we got you here and you started bleeding again . . . Damn, Del, you should've seen him. He was _this_ close to freaking out. I dunno how he held himself together. But he sat by the bed, holding your hand, even though you were sedated and out cold.

"Yeah, Del, he might be the easygoing, joke-cracking, bomb-detonating blind mutant, but he's got feelings. I say go easy on him. I mean, you taking a tumble off the roof after having an emo moment . . . or ten . . . Yeah, if I were Ig, I'd think you were trying to kill yourself, too. So even if he seemed angry with you or whatever, I'd bet money on it that he was just scared. Just give him a chance, will ya? He's had a rough time of it. Yeah, I know, you have too, but . . . Honestly, staying up on the roof all night with him and then yelling at him the next day? His self-confidence levels must be scraping bottom."

She just tilted her head toward me, raising a brow in a "C'mon, seriously, girl?" sort of way. I couldn't help but crack a grin, but it soon faded, and I rubbed my palms on the knees of my jeans. I was feeling less angry now, and I was wondering . . . had I really been that hard on him? Was I taking out all my anger, frustration, and personal issues on him just because he was quiet and provided a listening ear? Wow, talk about selfish, huh? Then again, that's a character flaw of mine. It's just one of a laundry list of such defects. _Sigh._ Anyway, Max and I were silent for a while before Max shifted, sighed, and looked steadily at me.

"And I'm sorry that Derek died; I'm sorry that your wing doesn't function properly right now. But you're tough. You can get through this. Hell, you managed to get through the whole 'Hey, guys, I was sent to kill you but decided not to!' fiasco back in San Fran."

"I flipped completely out," I snorted, rolling my eyes and kicking my Chucks back and forth. "Remember that? Screamed in Chinese, ran away . . ."

"That reminds me. How _do_ you know Chinese? Because, y'know, the last I heard, it had all these weird inflexions to it."

"Yeah, it does," I agreed with a sigh. "You want one with a lot of tones? Here." I took a breath, thought over my Chinese vocabulary (handy to have it pre-programmed, yes?) and got going. "_Zhe zhen shi ge kuai le de jin zhan_."

"Wow," Max chuckled. "You've got a grasp on the language." She paused, looking askance at me. "So, uh, what did that mean, exactly?"

I grinned.

"It means 'This is a happy development.' It's sarcasm."

"It's very 'you.'"

I laughed—actually laughed! It felt good to laugh because, well, I hadn't done it in a while. I reached over and clapped Max on the shoulder, grinning. See, I _was_ feeling better! She'd given me my lecture and had let the subject go; now she was . . . she was like my sister, I guess.

"Ain't it, though?" I snickered. "I've got a few major insults up my sleeve. Wanna hear 'em?"

"Oh, yes, please," she nodded enthusiastically. "Maybe I'll learn them before we meet the witch again so I can have something to throw at her instead of the standard fare."

"Okay, let's see; what do we have . . . ?" I dramatically rubbed my hands before snapping my fingers. "Got one. '_Ke-wu de lao bao jun_'; that one means 'horrible old tyrant' and fits the Director pretty well . . . '_Jian huo_' is a fun one; it means 'cheap floozy.' The worst one I can think of off the top of my head is '_Ta ma de hun dan_.' That one . . . heh. Let's just say it's so bad that saying it in public would scare small children and cause little old ladies to faint."

Max grinned wickedly and made me whisper it in her ear. I did, of course, because it would someday be used against the Director. But I can't tell _you_ the translation, though; as I said, it would cause some ears to bleed. Well, Max heard the translation, and her eyebrows shot sky-high. She whistled, shaking her head.

"That one might not just cause the little grandmas to faint; might give 'em heart attacks."

"So we save it for special occasions."

"Good plan!" she agreed, but then she looked at me in total seriousness. And when Max gives you a serious look? _Uh oh._ "You still didn't mention how come you know Chinese."

"I thought I did," I sighed, "back when you first heard me use it. Guess not."

"Guess not," she repeated, then was silent for a few moments. "Well . . . ?"

I sighed and looked down at my sneakers, kicking my feet back and forth and watching as I did. In case you're wondering, no, sitting on a high branch did _not_ make my stomach turn somersaults. I freaking _fly_, remember? Sure saves on gasoline, though; quite the economical little skill there. Anyway, I shrugged a shoulder before answering Max's question.

"It's another of my little mysteries," I said. "It's one of those things about me that are intriguing and weird all at once, y'know?"

"I get it. So you speak Chinese _how_ . . . ?"

"It's programmed into my brain," I sighed. "Because I was supposed to be Itex's ultimate weapon, I had to speak a lot of languages so I could communicate with whoever rented me to execute whatever evil little plots they had. So I speak, like, five or six languages. I'm fluent in Mandarin Chinese, French, Italian, Spanish, and Latin—yes, Latin; don't laugh—with a working knowledge of Arabic. So I wouldn't consider myself fluent in that, but I could probably fling some insults. I _think_ I'm also decent at German, though I never tried it. Never needed to."

"Wow," Max marveled. "You can speak all those foreign languages, and some folks have trouble with English—and it's their native tongue. Wild. But Arabic? You mean to tell me Itex was planning on lending you to terrorists?"

"Sure seems that way, doesn't it?" I turned and looked over at her, thinking about that. Me, a terrorist's plaything. They'd probably make me a suicide bomber. Wouldn't _that_ just suck? They'd probably use me to kill American soldiers. That'd suck _worse_. "Good thing I told Itex _adios_, then, huh?"

"Totally," Max nodded. "Yeah, last thing we need is you working with the bad guys. Though . . . hey, hold on . . ."

She got this look to her that was all "I have an idea!" You know that little metaphor about a light bulb popping up over somebody's head when they get an idea? Well, Max was very well-illuminated, lemme tell ya. I gave her a long look.

"What's going on in that head of yours?"

"I was just wondering about what'd happen if you knew about Itex's associates and planned missions for you or whatever. If you knew about all that stuff they were planning, then maybe . . . maybe we could beat them to it."

"Right, 'cause you have to save the world," I nodded slowly. "That might work. I'll see if I can remember anything. Or I could get you to an Itex facility on the other side of the planet, get Nudge to hack the computer, and find out all the stuff straight from the horse's mouth."

"I'm sensing a plan here. Maybe we ought to go back and talk to the others, see if they're up for exacting a little justice and revenge on a certain corporation."

And that . . . was where I balked. Going back would require facing Iggy, and that would require getting over myself and managing to squeeze out an apology when I wasn't sure that I could. I'm very proud, remember? Afraid of failure and afraid of admitting "Hey, I screwed up!" I got a little hesitant-looking and started shifting around on my branch as my little overactive imagination played out the possible situations that might crop up when I met up with Ig again. First situation: I'd manage an apology but he'd never speak to me again. Second situation: he'd try to talk to me, get me to spill my guts, but I'd turn all tight-lipped and we'd never speak again. Third situation: we'd just never speak to each other again. Talk about a serious lack of optimism; every last potential situation ended with the two of us never again saying another word to each other. Yeah, some hope I had.

But as I thought over these possible situations, I swear Max already figured out what was going through my head. Maybe Angel's not the only mind-reader around her anymore. She gave me a long, firm look.

"Del," she said in that serious, "I mean business" tone she can have. "For the last time, get over yourself. Ig is _not_ going to jump down your throat over exploding in his face. He'd feel awful if you _didn't_ go talk to him, because he had this look that pretty much was wondering if he'd done wrong by you somewhere. Besides, if you two don't work it out on your own, the rest of us will enlist help and _make_ you."

"Because the peace has been disturbed enough lately without us chewing each other's head off, huh?"

"Yeah, exactly. None of us has gotten enough sleep these past few days, we're all still kinda licking our wounds, and then you're off being all 'Woe is me' while the rest of us are trying to move on and take care of the people responsible for this crap storm. For the fiftieth time, Del, this ain't about you. It never was about you, even though you're a big part of it."

She gave me another Look before she sighed deeply and rolled her shoulders back. I slouched forward.

"Now," she went on, "we're going back to the house, _you_ are going to apologize to Ig before I _make_ you, and then we're going to discuss the best way of taking down Itex. I get the feeling it'll be rough—it always is—but you're gonna help us. You volunteered to, remember?"

"Yeah," I sighed, clasping my hands between my knees. "I guess without Der to make good on his half of that promise, I'll do twice the work."

"You're too damn ambitious for your own good," Max said, "but okay. So long as you can handle it."

I gave her a long look, exhaling slowly through my nose, and nodded.

"Yeah. I think I can."

She gave me a grin before hopping down off the branch, and I followed, landing on the ground beneath with a brief "Oof." I tell you no lies; it is _difficult_ to jump out of a tree without wings for support and _not_ break one leg or both, but I managed, barely. Carefully, I climbed back to my feet, dusted myself off, and shook out both legs to be sure that they weren't broken. All was well, so Max and I walked back toward the house, my stomach flopping like a beached tuna the whole time.


	33. 32: Apologies, with Sincerity

**A/N: **Whoo! An update that didn'ttake ages to emerge! HOORAY! I'm so proud of myself, even if this chapter's only a third as long as the last one... Heh. So, disclaimer: Maximum Ride belongs to James Patterson. Del belongs to me, happily! :D

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-two – Apologies, with Sincerity**

"Iggyyyyyyyy . . . Del wants to talk to yoooooooouuuu..."

Let me tell you this one thing, friends: Max has an _evil_ sense of humor. Some days, she's almost downright psychotic with that terribly wicked sense of humor that she has. I think she was feeling like that because that's _exactly_ how she entered the house. She waltzed in, announcing in a playfully singsong-y voice that Ig and I were soon to have a good talk, and I just followed, shoulders hunched, Converses shuffling on the carpet, and teeth grinding so hard it felt like the enamel was rubbing off instantly. Oh, and guess what happened. Her little singsong tone got every head in the house to jerk up, especially Nudge's. I noticed that Iggy didn't seem as quick to react, but when he turned his pale gaze toward me, suddenly reminding me that his world was sadly pitch black, he looked . . . _surprised_.

"She . . . she does?" he asked, looking curious, intrigued, and all that.

Nudge and Ella just exchanged a—dare I say it?—knowing look and giggled wildly. I just reached over and swiftly thumped Nudge on the back of the head; Ella was spared only because I didn't know her very well. It didn't shut them up, though; they just giggled harder. I tried evil glares of doom. No dice. So I ignored them! Clever idea, yes? Thought so.

"You'll have to ask her yourself," Max intoned with a mischievous glint in her brown eyes.

I turned my glare to her, but she just beamed innocently and waltzed off to flop in front of the TV to see what Fang and Gazzy were watching. Angel turned and grinned at me—again, in a damn annoying knowing little way—before going back to playing tug-of-war with Total, and I was left there, standing in the doorway, feeling kind of stupid. Ig still looked curious, though, and I sighed to myself.

"You do?" he asked again. "You want to talk?"

"Watch her, Ig," Nudge giggled in that infuriating manner she has. "The way she's lookin' at you, I wouldn't be surprised if she decided to kiss you!"

When she said that, he, I, and everybody else in the room turned _bright_ red. Total made some weird gagging noise that almost sounded like a cat hacking up a hairball, and Ella turned a disbelieving gaze toward Nudge. I, for one, was very glad that neither Dr. Martinez nor Batchelder was present, because Ella quietly asked "They're an item?" I felt my face grow so hot that the tips of my ears were about to combust. Nudge leaned over and whispered in her new friend's ear, and though I didn't catch what was said, I could tell that Iggy had because he shifted uncomfortably. But it was after I caught wind of Ella asking with teenage curiosity "Have they made out?" that Ig quickly got up from the couch, strode over to me, grabbed me by the arm, and dragged me outside. I yelped at the sudden tug but was able to recover enough to slam the door in Nudge and Ella's giggling faces.

"Teenagers," I groaned when Ig and I were safely behind the house in the storage shed in the backyard, away from eavesdroppers. "Always annoying people with their stupid assumptions . . . And you know what they say about assuming things . . ."

"Yeah," Ig sighed as he settled cross-legged on the floor and I sat down beside him, knees pulled into my chest. "So . . . you wanted to talk? And we weren't going to . . . were we?"

"Make out? Hell, no. Ig, no offence, but I wouldn't make out with you unless we had a really, _really_ serious relationship going on. Like, if we were maybe _this_ close to getting married, then yeah. In the meantime, let's slap Nudge and Ella."

"Sounds good to me. But . . ." He paused, tilting his head toward me, kind of curiously. "I guess I'm gonna have to work at getting under your skin, huh?"

I just stared at him as the thought of "Good God, he's actually serious!" flowed through my poor little brain. Remember what Max had said about Ig maybe loving me? Yeah. That. This was new. I'd never had anybody be serious about me. But you know me: I'm not going to jump into anything before I'm ready. So, as I've said earlier, if you've been expecting a page or fifty full of hot, passionate teenage smut, you'll have to go elsewhere to fulfill your perverted fantasies. I don't do smut.

_Anyway_. I think the two long minutes of dead silence clued Ig into the fact that he'd seriously surprised and stunned me, because he shifted slightly and cleared his throat. I just kept staring, feeling embarrassed heat rise in my face. But then Ig seemed like he'd gotten himself together because he turned toward me, looking serious.

"Okay. So. Max said you wanted to talk?"

"Yeah," I said, looking down at my clasped hands. "I do."

I tried to rehearse what I was going to say, but . . . alas, it didn't work. I had been planning to explain myself like a normal, sane human being and follow that up with a good, sincere apology, but you know the saying: no plan survives contact with the enemy.

"Ig, I'm so, _so_ sorry for yelling at you," I ended up babbling out. "I didn't mean to hurt your feelings; I was just so fed up and teed off with the world that I just exploded. I really didn't have any right to go and do that because you hadn't done anything wrong; you were just worried about me and wanted to make sure I was all right."

There. I'd said it. I'd made myself sound almost like a groveling idiot just so I could shove my pride to the backseat and apologize for wounding him like I had. He just sat there in silence for a minute before sighing and reaching for my hand; I let him take it.

"You don't need to apologize," he said. "I mean, you're going through a rough time right now. If anything, I probably should've been a little more understanding. It's gotta suck for you, being stuck on the ground while the rest of us could just pick up and go at a minute's notice."

"Yeah, it does suck!" I admitted with a fierce nod that made my hair flop all over the place. "I keep feeling like something's gonna happen and you all are gonna have to just leave me behind because I can't keep up!"

Iggy got this surprised look to him as he clenched my hand firmly in his, locking those pale, cloudy eyes of his onto mine.

"Del, we would _never_ leave you behind," he insisted. "We don't do that. We don't leave family behind. Ever. No matter what."

"But I can't fly," I protested, trying to clamp down on the sudden wave of helplessness that was _this_ close to swamping me. "It doesn't matter that you guys wouldn't leave me; I still can't fly! What if the Director's goons caught up with us, huh? The rest of you would be able to fly off and escape, but I'd get caught on the ground and . . . and . . ."

I didn't finish that thought aloud, but it continued on for a while in my brain. If I were caught on the ground, they wouldn't let me live, not that time. They'd probably kick me around, beat me into the ground, and claw and stab me until there was little left of me that wasn't bleeding. And then they'd just shoot my in the head and leave me for the vultures. Don't think I don't know what they'd do to me; I'm not deluding myself with the thought "Hey, maybe they'd just let me go!" Please. You've learned by now that Itex considers me to be little more than defective merchandise. And what happens to defective merchandise? Right. It goes in the dumpster. We live in a throw-away age; if something's broken, we don't try to fix it. We just throw it away and get a new one. Well, let me say this: a throw-away age sucks massively when you're the broken item.

I think Ig saw that I was about to freak out over the prospect of getting caught, tortured, and slaughtered, because he reached over and pulled me in for a hug, looping an arm around my shoulder and squeezing firmly. He didn't say anything, just held me until my breathing got a little less panicked and erratic. Then he reached up and gingerly stroked my hair, rubbing a few strands between his fingers as if he'd forgotten the texture even though I knew he hadn't. After a minute or five, he sighed and gave me another little squeeze.

"Look, I know it's scary," he said, "but you're family now. We don't abandon family. Besides, we're all pullin' for you. If it gets too tough for you, you talk to Max or Fang. Or me. You're not gettin' to bottle up all these negative emotions. Bad for a body's karma, anyway."

I snorted softly. Karma. Right. I didn't think I believed in karma, but I did know I always felt repressed and smothered whenever I kept bad feelings to myself. It was like everything that made me . . . _me_ . . . had been eaten by the negativity I was feeling. Do they even make anti-depressants for bird kids? Probably not. But, well . . . I knew Ig was right. Of course, he was always right. He had enough experience of his own with depressed feelings, sorrow, and all that to know how to help me feel better. And he was right about family, too. For the first time in . . . well, _forever_, I had a family. I had people that cared about me and would stand up for me, no matter what. I had people that would rally around me in full support, to defend and protect me. Do you remember how, at the beginning of this whole adventure, I'd been planning to take Derek and Iggy and form a Flock of my own? Well, I didn't need to do that now. I had my Flock now. I, dare I say it, felt as though I _belonged_. Maybe it was cliché to feel that way, but I didn't care. I just felt kind of secure, as if these kids like me would all pick me up and carry me if we had to fly away in a hurry.

Iggy and I didn't say anything else; I think we'd said everything necessary for the time being. We just sat there in the silent semi-darkness of the storage shed, his arm around me and my head leaned on his shoulder. He leaned over once to peck me on the top of the head before he leaned back against the wall, exhaling softly. I glanced up at him, then at the little yellow bar of light peeking into the shed where we'd left the door cracked open, then back at him.

"We're somethin' else," I said eventually with a quiet snort.

"How's that?"

"We've got enough angst and negativity floating around that we could probably bottle it up and sell it to the annoyingly happy people."

"Or write a book about it," he laughed, and I laughed with him.

"We could! But the literary circles might not like us for it because I think there're enough angsty books out there as it is."

We just laughed in the darkness for a while before there were footsteps outside on the grass. Instantly, we went silent as the door swung open to reveal Max, looking dead serious.

"Del," she said in her most leader-like tone; I knew instantly that, if something weren't terribly wrong, then it was about to be. "Jeb needs to see you."

Ig turned toward me, and I turned toward him, and if he had been able to see me, we would've exchanged some weird glances. We didn't say anything; I just hopped up and trotted across the yard, Iggy on my heels. Max led us back into the house, which was oddly silent except for the chattering of the TV and Gazzy scrounging around in the refrigerator for a snack. It was almost as if everyone knew something awful was going to happen, but they didn't know what or, more importantly, when. So, yes, I got a nice knot in my stomach as Max led me to a back room of the house: Batchelder's accommodations. It was just Dr. Martinez's office with an army cot-like thing for a bed, and that was where Batchelder was sitting when Max shoved me into the room and shut the door behind me. I glanced around, suddenly aware that I was alone in here, but my gaze jerked forward when Batchelder looked at me and held up a large, brown, square-ish envelope.

"This came for you," he said, so I took a closer look.

It had my name on it—well, my fake name. It had _Delilah Janssen_ and the Martinez' address scrawled on it in large, loopy letters—letters that sent an icy chill racing down my spine as I recognized the handwriting. It was from _her_.

"How'd she know where I was?" I breathed, starting to shake. Batchelder gave me a long look.

"Del, I know you asked Dr. Martinez for X-rays to try to find a tracker chip in your body. I know you didn't find one. But think about it, Del: where weren't you scanned? Where do you have implants?"

That icy feeling got worse as my legs almost gave out under me. Oh no. Oh _no_. She didn't . . . It wasn't . . .

"You don't mean—" I stammered. Batchelder just nodded solemnly and very slowly before saying what I was having trouble comprehending.

"It's in your brain, Del," he said. "It's in your communicator chip. I was there when you were designed, when you were created. They needed to track you somehow because of the work you'd be doing, but they needed to install the chip where it could never be removed."

"So they put it in my brain," I whispered, shaking noticeably. "They put it there because it wouldn't be able to come out without killing me. Oh, God. Oh, God, she knows. She knows where we are. She's going to kill us."

I sagged down onto the bed with the sudden, horrible realization that we were all probably seconds from dying. We'd come to Arizona for safety, for refuge, but I'd unknowingly led Itex right to us, not to mention two innocent civilians and their dog. I knew then what needed to be done. Even if I couldn't fly, we needed to get out of Arizona. We needed to get away from Dr. Martinez and Ella before the next-gen Flyboys that I'd heard, once upon a time, were being built swarmed down and killed them, too. By that point, I was feeling sick to my stomach; my head was spinning; I thought I'd pass out. But then Batchelder motioned toward the envelope, running a hand over the already-loosened back flap. I knew he'd already looked at it. He knew what was in there, and whatever it was . . . he didn't like it.

"It gets worse," he murmured as he lifted the flap and pulled something out.

It was a thin sheet of photo paper, maybe eleven-by-fourteen, and I only saw the plain white back, covered in tiny Itex logos, before Batchelder turned it around. And when he did . . . my breath whooshed from me as though I'd just been flung into a steel wall. I started to shake harder even as I stared in horrified shock at what that picture was. It was a large print from the lab. Dated yesterday. Down on the bottom, in the corner, was the same loopy handwriting that was on the envelope, reading thus: _We won._

"Oh, my God," I whispered, even my voice trembling. "My God, it's Derek!"


	34. 33: You Can't Take Me

**A/N:** Oh my gosh. It's over. I finally finished it. I'm... wow. I don't know what to say. It just... happened... so suddenly! Wow. But hey, there's always room for a sequel. I love you my watchers, readers, and fave-ers! And now, the disclaimer: Del belongs to me. Derek belongs to JaxSolo. Everybody else belongs to James Patterson. (The first three books were the best, Jimmy Pats, but we love you anyway.)

* * *

******Chapter Thirty-three – You Can't Take Me**

There was no doubt in my mind that the boy in the picture _was_ Derek; I just _knew_. Besides, it was obvious that Batchelder knew, but if I hadn't had a chance to study it, I might've been fooled—note, _might have_. Not a definite, but a probably. After all, it didn't _look_ much like Derek, at least not the Derek that I remembered. His hair was cut military-short, and the picture itself looked like a mug-shot of some desperate criminal because of the way it was set up. But the thing that startled me the most was the way his eyes looked. They were still their interesting red-brown color, but they looked . . . dull. Dead. As if the very fight and fire that had made him who he was had been sucked out with an industrial-grade vacuum cleaner. He just didn't _look_ like Derek, at least not where it counted. I felt tears start coming to my eyes to see him like that, but I blinked enough that they never fell. I held out my hand for the picture, instead, gently stroking it when Batchelder passed it to me.

"What did they _do_ to him?" I breathed, still gazing at the horribly cold red-brown eyes that stared out from the photo. Batchelder sighed heavily.

"I don't know, Del," he replied, "but I've got a pretty good idea. You may consider what you've done to be the ultimate expression of independence, but to the Director, it's the ultimate expression of rebellion. Before all this, you were worth at least ten million dollars in research alone, maybe fifteen once all the training and programming was added in. Honestly, you were the most expensive, most valuable piece of research that Itex ever achieved."

"I've heard this crap before," I grumbled. "I'm so _special_, so _valuable_, so _important_, the _ultimate weapon_. Though I never did figure out how I could be so 'ultimate' without being invulnerable. What, was the Director just being arrogant again and spewing out a bunch of worthless nonsense?"

Batchelder was silent for a few minutes before he exhaled and gave me a long look. I immediately got the feeling that I was about to hear a little more revealing news about myself, and I got that creepy sensation of the bottom dropping out of my stomach. Ever had that? It's a weird feeling like your stomach just fell out of your belly, kind of. It's weird. I hate it. Anyway. Batchelder shifted slightly on his bed before he deigned to answer me. Yes, this man knows so freaking _much_ about me, folks. Ask him sometime. I'm going to.

"Assassinations," Batchelder said simply with a long, silent exhale through his nose. "That's what you were created for. Assassinations, covert missions, things that required equal portions of stealth and skill. You were designed to be a one-person army, but not sent out into the middle of heavy combat. You were created to go behind enemy lines and spy for whoever had paid for you."

I swallowed hard, gazing back down at the picture of the boy that had been Derek. Wow. Me, a spy. A winged spy. I thought I could understand when he said that. I would be a highly-trained weapon, able to be turned on and off via my subliminal encoding, and unable to refuse orders once that encoding was activated. I'd do everything I was told without arguing and be able to provide my own transportation, too. Wow. Just . . . wow. Batchelder sighed and continued.

"You're a novelty, Del. There is nothing else like you; none of the other Mark Two hybrids came anywhere near what you were designed to be. Not even Derek is like you, and he was the best of those left after you got through with them."

Yes, it always came back to that, how I'd slaughtered so many fellow mutants just to prove that I really was worth all the millions of dollars worth of research that had been put into me. But I had proved it, and I had been so _close_ to being the ultimate in espionage. No, I'm not mourning it; not really. I mean, it would've been interesting to see what I would've become, what kinds of adventures I would've had, but I wouldn't have been human. I wouldn't have found friends, and I most certainly never would've realized that there is more to life than orders and Itex. But I saw what was happening here, what the Director was doing . . . _why_ she'd scrawled _We won_ onto the picture.

"She's going to try to make him like me," I said slowly, nodding with comprehension. Suddenly, it all made sense. She was going to take Derek, "refurbish" him, and . . . "He's going to hunt us down."

Batchelder just nodded in silent agreement as I sagged back against the wall, clutching Derek's picture close to my chest. He wasn't Derek anymore, I realized with anguish. He was probably Subject Seventeen again, but unlike he was before, he was probably now a mindless, emotionless pawn of the Director that wasn't even going to try to break free. She was probably trying to make him everything that I should have been, the assassin I'd been designed to be . . . _everything_. And I knew, with a sinking feeling in my stomach, what was going to happen, what the Director's plan was.

We were going to die. All of us. Not just me—_all_ of us. Me, Max, Ig, the rest of the Flock, Batchelder, Dr. Martinez, Ella . . . even their Bassett hound. All of the Director's enemies would be eliminated in one solid blow, and it was going to be at the hands of someone we'd all considered a friend only a few days ago. I stared at the picture for a long time, tracing the hard, cold lines of Was-Derek's face, trying to ignore the icy yet angry look in his now-foreign eyes. Batchelder was as silent as I was, but after a while, he sighed thinly through his nose and touched my hand to get my attention.

"You know what you have to do, don't you?"

I sighed, sliding the photo back into its envelope and pressing down the brad that was holding it shut as I nodded. Yeah, I knew. We were going to have to run, hard and fast, then make an about-face and strike. Of course, we wouldn't be able to strike on our own. We'd have to, I dunno, get a hold of the President and get him to call out the military against Itex. Then again, when was the last time you heard of the leader of the free world listening to a bunch of mutant kids? Yes, I can see the headlines now: "PRESIDENT BEGINS INTERVIEWS WITH HUMAN-AVIAN HYBRIDS!" Did I mention _mutant_?

But I also knew this: Was-Derek would be sent after us, with orders to kill and show no mercy. And if we wanted even a smidgen of a chance . . . then running was our only alternative now. I looked up at Batchelder, clenching the envelope containing the picture tightly in my fist.

"We need to tell the others," I said decisively. "We need to tell them because we're all gonna die if we don't. And, well, I don't exactly want to see Max's mom and sister get whacked because they haven't done anything wrong. If there's anyone the Director's got a beef with, it's me. She's going to be coming after me because of how much I've ticked her off, and . . . and I can't let Derek or anybody else suffer because of that."

Yeah, I sounded all darn heroic. Go me. Who cares? Batchelder nodded at me, though, in agreement, and I got up to go tell the others that our little Arizona vacation was over. As I left the room, I found Max waiting for me in the hall, and from the hard, determined look on her face, I knew she'd heard everything, from the revelation of where my chip was to what had happened to Derek. My legs suddenly felt weak with the thought that wherever I would run, the Director would know and follow, but I leaned against the wall to support myself.

"I'm sorry, Max," I breathed after a moment of silence. "I didn't know. I didn't—"

"Not your fault," she told me, striding back for the living room. "Here I thought we'd get off free again. A mutant's work is never done."

"And you've been doing this for four freaking years," I grumbled as I followed her. "You've probably expected it to be finished by now."

"Itex has the whole world in its grasp, Del," she told me. "You can't take down something that big in two weeks."

When we got back to the living room, everyone looked so happy that I couldn't help but feel terrible for taking them away from their vacation. Max's mom would be coming back home from the clinic soon for lunch, and where would we be? We might be gone by then, unable to have said goodbye and thank you. Oh, and I still couldn't fly, remember? Oh yes. We'd have to escape Itex _on foot_. Oh boy! What fun! _NOT!_ But Max took charge of the situation with a sharp "Okay, gang, listen up," and all ears turned toward us. She then explained what was going on, though I noticed she didn't tell them what had happened to Derek, and as she spoke, I watched the others' faces. They went from looking cheery to looking disappointed and even a little angry in a matter of minutes.

"This sucks," Gazzy muttered. "Every time we wanna do somethin' fun . . ."

"I'm sorry, Gaz," I replied as earnestly as I could, "and Max is too. Listen, we'll have fun, I promise. One day, real soon, we'll go somewhere and do something awesome."

"Like London?" Angel asked with wide eyes as she stroked Total.

"Yeah, London," I snorted with a shrug. "What the hell."

It was okay for me to promise them the freaking moon because, well, we wouldn't have this problem if I didn't have a tracking chip in my brain. Yeah, yeah, my fault, I get it. I couldn't help but apologize to them for this, but about the time that I got out "I'm sorry, guys" . . .

"Sorry for what?"

We all whirled around to find Dr. Martinez coming in from the clinic, and I realized that I hadn't heard her station wagon pull up outside even though I should've. That, to me, was _not_ a good sign. I just swallowed hard as Max and Ella told their mom that we all would have to be leaving. Max, along with the rest of the Flock, told most of the story except things like "Oh, by the way, Derek's been brainwashed into the Director's service" and "Oh, Mom, guess what—Del has a tracking chip after all. It's in her _brain_." It was just the basics: Itex was after us again, we had to run . . . Before I knew what was happening, Dr. Martinez had pulled Max in and hugged her tightly, pecking her forehead, and a moment later, she was helping us get everything together for our escape. She must've packed two coolers full of food, as well as each of our backpacks with food, supplies, clothes . . . Even Batchelder was on the move, packing up. Angel was hugging his waist the whole time, though, and I could just feel how disappointed everyone was at having to run _again_.

"Hey, how're we gonna get outta here?" Nudge asked suddenly as she tossed some bottles of Kool-Aid into one of the iceboxes. "Del can't fly, and we've got too much stuff to carry anyway."

"Hey, yeah!" Gazzy piped up. "We can't carry all that . . ."

Dr. Martinez and Batchelder exchanged a look before Batchelder dug around in his pants pockets, tugging out a set of keys and tossing them to Max, who tossed them back to Fang.

"Take the SUV," he said. "Itex property, practically untraceable."

"We're gonna _drive_?!" Nudge exclaimed; I was just grateful Batchelder hadn't mentioned my tracking chip, which totally overrode the SUV's capabilities. "But we won't be able to drive fast enough to get away from 'em!"

"Yeah, we will," Iggy and I said suddenly and simultaneously. I glanced over at him while receiving a few curious looks of my own for my sudden optimism, but I shrugged and jammed my hands in my pockets. I went on. "We'll drive until we run outta gas, then we'll get more and keep going. We'll drive until we find somebody to help us, and when that happens, then we stand and fight."

"Besides," Iggy said, slipping his hand into mine and squeezing. "We've all been through enough crap that I'm really beginning to get sick of always having to run away. Maybe this time we'll actually be able to get something done, take out some bad guys."

_And bring Derek home,_ I added silently to myself. There were a few nods of agreement; Nudge and Ella high-fived while Gazzy whooped and declared his intention to make more bombs with which to destroy all of Itex's evil minions. Max just gave me a look—a single, solitary look that said simply . . . "Thanks." I managed a tiny little smile before Dr. Martinez gave us all massive hugs before doing the mom thing of declaring "Okay, last stop for bathroom breaks before you hit the road!" A few of us—I won't say which to prevent embarrassment—took the opportunity and skedaddled for the bathroom, but after that was done, she gave us hugs all over again. Yes, even me. She was careful around my wing, giving my shoulders a gentle, mom-like squeeze.

"Sorry you can't stay, Del," she said. "I probably could've brought you into the clinic and done some work on your wing."

"Nah, it's okay," I shrugged; I was lying, of course, but she didn't need to know that. "It'll get better."

Angel knew I was lying because she glanced at me as if to indicate that she knew, but I ignored her. I just grabbed my backpack and slung it over the shoulder with the uninjured wing, heading out to the car. But then I glanced at my feet, then back at Ella.

"Hey, you want these back?"

"Keep 'em!" she said, waving me off. "I'll get some more with my next allowance; it's fine!"

She and Max exchanged a huge, sister-to-sister hug before there was a Dr. Martinez-Max mommy-daughter embrace that made me glance away out of feeling as if I were intruding. Instead, I just glanced up at the sky, wishing I could be up there rather than climbing into Batchelder's SUV. Gazzy and Fang were loading the gear into the back, and I found myself wishing we had guns. No dice. Iggy squeezed my hand before slipping into the backseat of the SUV, iPod already on and earphones already resting inside his ears. I glanced around, looking for Total and finding him in Angel's arms, when Batchelder surprised me by taking my shoulder.

"Del," he murmured, turning me so I was forced to look at him. "Chicago."

That was all he said in that enigmatic way he had before he pressed a plain white keycard into my palm. I thought maybe he was supposed to have given it to Max—maybe she was still hugging her mom or something—but no. He'd _meant_ to give it to me. My brows furrowed at that mysterious mention of Chicago but tucked the card safely into my backpack. I started turning toward the SUV before I stopped, glancing back. Max and Batchelder were embracing tightly, and I realized abruptly that this was the first time I'd ever seen the almighty Maximum Ride look practically teary-eyed. But she slipped into the passenger side up front, next to Fang, and I looked back to see Ella and Dr. Martinez standing on the front porch, ready to wave us off. The next thing I knew, though, was that I'd jogged back to Batchelder, grabbed his hand in mine, and given it a hard shake.

"Thanks. Jeb," I said; "Jeb" was an afterthought, an afterthought that obviously surprised him, "for everything. I mean it."

"I know you do," he smiled. "Be careful out there, Del. Max knows a thing or two about survival that you don't yet."

"What about you?" Angel called from the backseat of the SUV. "You're gonna be careful too, Jeb, right?"

"Of _course_ he is!" Nudge assured her. "He's always careful! Well, most always. Except there was this one time that—"

She fell silent as Fang reached around from the driver's seat and clamped a hand over her mouth, and I cracked a quirky little smile. I shrugged, glancing at Batchelder. It was then that I realized that he had no transportation and was as much an Itex-wanted person as any of us were—and I don't mean hugs-and-kisses-wanted. I mean thrown-into-a-sterile-lab-and-tortured-wanted.

"What about you?" I asked, echoing Angel's question. He shrugged.

"I've got my ways. Right now, Del, you go with them. I see that the Director was wrong about you. You may have been designed to kill, but that's not what you were chosen to do."

Something in his tone left me feeling all spooky, I guess a little like that "standing on holy ground" kind of a feeling, only lacking in the holy ground. I shuddered on pure reflex as I crawled into the backseat, between Iggy and Angel as I'd been on the way down here. The Flock leaned out all the windows and waved goodbye as we drove away from the Martinez' house, leaving Ella and her mom on the front porch and Batchelder and the dog in the front yard. I couldn't help but be a little scared as I looked down at my backpack, nestled beneath my feet and carrying both that picture of Derek and that mysterious keycard. Whatever it was, it opened something in Chicago. So I told Max that Chicago seemed like a good place to go, and while Nudge started off on a squealing spree about the Magnificent Mile, Max just gave me one of her Looks that said "You and I need to discuss this later." I just nodded slowly, gently nudging my backpack with my foot.

And I needed to rescue Derek. Well, maybe I wouldn't do it on my own—_we_ needed to. The only trouble with that was that I didn't know where he was. He wouldn't be at the School; the School was half-destroyed, and I couldn't remember any other labs like that even though I knew they existed. For a moment, I entertained the idea that maybe Derek was locked down in protective custody in Chicago before I realized that Batchelder probably wouldn't have known that. Therefore, I reasoned, the keycard was for something else that might have something to do with either Derek's probable brainwashing or how we could bring Itex to its knees.

I think Angel noticed me thinking, because she was watching me closely. I turned to her and mouthed "Well?" She just shook her head and leaned over to me while Total peered out the window, little black stump of a tail just a-wagging.

"He didn't have any thoughts," she murmured, meaning Batchelder. "He didn't want us to know."

"Or maybe," I whispered with surprising quickness, "maybe he doesn't know what it is himself."

She nodded; that was, apparently, a very good possibility, but if I knew Batchelder, that wasn't the case. It didn't matter. It would take us maybe two days to get to Chicago, and that would give me plenty of time to tell Max about the keycard. Then she could decide the next move and I could help, because this was her show after all; it stopped being simply about me a long, long time ago.

But I knew I would get Derek back. Somehow I would; I just knew it. I'd do _something_ to get him back to the way he'd been, with his optimism in spite of all the crap he'd been through, with his floppy brown hair, even with that awful trick he'd played on me what felt like a lifetime ago where he'd tricked me into believing my expiration date had appeared. That was another thing I wanted to find out. The Director had said I didn't have one. Did the Flock? Did Derek? Were they going to die and leave only me? I didn't know. None of us did. All I knew—all _any_ of us knew—was that the situation had gone from bad to worse and we were all filled with a sudden, overwhelming determination to destroy Itex once and for all. After all, a lot of heroes are kind of just thrust into heroism, aren't they?

Iggy tapped me on the shoulder a little while later, holding out an earphone to me. I stared at it for a while, confused, then glanced at him as his head bobbed slightly to the beat of the music that was pouring from the earphone.

"What's that for?" I asked him, nonplussed.

"Listen," he told me with a smile. "I think it's your song."

"I don't have a song, you jerk," I grumbled, playfully punching him in the shoulder as I took the earphone and nestled it into my ear. The lyrics began flooding into my mind as I leaned back against the seat to just . . . listen.

_Don't judge a thing until you know what's inside it_

_Don't push me—I'll fight it_

_Never gonna give in, never gonna give it up, no_

_If you can't catch a wave then you're never gonna ride it_

_You can't come uninvited_

_Never gonna give in, never gonna give up, no_

_You can't take me_

_I'm free._


End file.
